Abandon
by NongPradu
Summary: What happened when Sam left for Stanford? How did John and Dean cope with Sam's absence, and how did Sam adjust to his new normal life while his brother and father were out hunting the evil he'd run away from? Pre-series. No spoilers.
1. Disemboweled

**Story Notes:**

I've always been intrigued by the whole family dynamic and wanted to take a stab at exploring the Stanford years for the Winchester clan. Here's my take on what happened when Sam left, and how everybody coped.

I've never been quite sure about the timeline for this, since I got the impression that Sam left for college when he turned 18 (having gotten the full scholarship to Stanford and what not), but we're also told that he was gone for just over 2 years... So either it's a continuity error, or Sam started uni when he was 20 and not 18.

This story assumes that Sam left at 18, and that the time that he was gone was actually 4 years instead of 2.

This story, "Abandon," is the first in a series (my first ever series), The Stanford Years. Hope y'all enjoy it!

* * *

_July 26, 2001._

Silver-blue scales glinted in the sunlight, grains of sand clinging stubbornly against the slimy, sleek surface of the gasping, flopping creature as it struggled to survive, struggled to absorb oxygen through its gills when none was to be had. Slow, agonizing death crystallized in the pathetic, flip-flapping motions of a life pushed to the brink, struggling against the inevitable, struggling against reality. But with each shudder, with each slap of its head and tail against the cruel sand, only death answered. Blackness was the only reprieve.

And that was exactly how Dean Winchester would describe the constriction in his chest, the inability to pull in air in spite of the wind through his hair and the abundance of O2 all around him. It was like slowly dying with no reprieve in sight.

He clutched at his knees and doubled over, forcing himself to gasp a breath, choking on it. Stop thinking and just breathe, his mind said calmly. Just breathe. But breathing felt unnatural. It felt wrong. It hurt.

Sammy was going to leave him. He knew it now. He had felt it coming for months now. The constant fighting with Dad. The secret packages from colleges Sam thought he didn't know about. Today's call from the Residence Coordinator at Stanford asking if she could speak to Sam about his accommodations for the Fall… God it hurt to breathe.

Dean had wanted to hang up on her, call her a whole host of dirty names – a damned filthy liar among them – but instead he had promised to leave the message with Sam with the assurance he would call her back as soon as he got in. Hot tears stung his eyes, sneaking like slippery devils with unrestricted fury down his flushed cheeks. He wanted to slap himself for being so weak, for being such a pansy-ass cry-baby, but Goddamnit, the phone call had taken him by surprise, winded him worse than a kick to the jewels, leaving him gasping and in pain.

His hands were shaking. He paced the parking lot, not trusting himself to stay in the motel room without smashing every item in it, and tried forcing his mind away from the panicked abyss the truth had plunged him into. He needed to think.

_Don't be such a fucking girl, Dean. Get a grip. Come up with a plan, and then we'll deal._

He took several deep, steadying breaths, reining in the tempest of emotions swirling around inside him, forcing the choking feelings into the pit of his stomach, cramming them in and bottling them up where they properly belonged. If he was going to somehow save this family, he needed to keep his head. He needed to _think_.

_Sam's gonna leave_, he told himself. No amount of denying it would make it any less true. Sam was going to leave – needed to leave, in fact. And Dean couldn't blame him. The kid wanted a life, wanted an education, and who was he really to tell him he couldn't? Dad would be furious. Dad would forbid it. But if he could just be convinced… if they could both be convinced that there was some kind of middle ground, that a compromise could be reached somewhere in the middle. It would be ok – it would all be ok – if they could just come up with a plan.

Dean wiped the tears from his cheeks with trembling hands and then stuffed his hands in his pockets, hoping to steady them. He needed to walk. He needed to be moving, to be doing something. So he went to the library. The plan was already forming itself in his brain and he needed internet access.

Two hours later, with a host of print-offs as proofs of his labour tucked under his arm, Dean Winchester found himself marching back to their motel room. He felt better about things already. It still gutted him that Sam had made all of these plans behind his back, had basically secured himself what Anne Bartlet, the RC at Stanford had assured him was a _full ride_, and hadn't had the decency to even mention it to him. Had he planned on sneaking out in the middle of the night come September, leaving a note saying, "C-ya Dad, Dean! Moving on to bigger and better things! Don't let the werewolves bite you in the ass on my way out!"

Apparently he had.

The door to the motel room opened with a click and Dean entered with a heavy sigh. The bathroom door was closed, meaning someone was in there, and by the knapsack tossed haphazardly against the leg of the table, and the laptop sitting open atop it, Dean knew that that someone was Sam. His hands went both cold and sweaty at the very thought of confronting him now, and he almost turned on a heel to sneak out before his brother emerged from the bathroom, but he was too late. The bathroom door opened, admitting the youngest Winchester.

"Hey," Sam called as he made his way past the beds toward the desk. "Where were you?"

Dean didn't quite register that his brother had spoken to him. He was watching him with his teeth clenched tightly, a muscle in his jaw jumping like an electric beat through the skin. Sam looked so casual, so cool and suave, like someone decidedly not sitting on this time-bomb of a secret. Dean wondered if maybe his brother was possessed.

"Dude, what the hell?" Sam asked, noticing the intense look his brother was giving him.

"Nothin' Sam," Dean forced himself to say as he pushed back the anger. If he was angry when he started this discussion, Sam would only come out swinging. And Dean knew there would be enough swinging when Dad got back.

Sam huffed.

"Except that look on your face says I'm-about-to-zap-you-with-my-smouldering-eye-beams."

Dean shrugged, sighing, and tried to force his mask in place – the calm, impassive mask that showed no emotion – the one that was iron-clad to anyone who wasn't Sam Winchester.

"All right," Dean said, sitting on the edge of his bed, "Fine. I'll just cut right to it then."

Sam raised an eyebrow expectantly, the muscles in his jaw now flexing and jumping with electric shocks. He was already on the defence. The offensive swing would be a reflex. No chance of avoiding it now.

"You forgot your cell phone when you left earlier, and Anne Bartlet called," Dean said blankly.

The name obviously didn't ring any bells.

"Anne Bartlet, the Residence Coordinator from Stanford, called." Dean watched as all the colour leeched from his eighteen year-old brother's face and then continued. "She wanted to talk to you about your _accommodations _for the Fall."

Dean watched in almost detached amusement as Sam opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, and then closed it again, his eyes bulging out of his head in an expression of mingled fear and panic as he struggled to find the words to explain himself, to justify himself. He looked like a fish in a tank, his mouth going in noiseless motion. Any moment Dean expected bubbles to pop forth from between his lips.

_At least you're not flopping and gasping on the ground, little brother_.

"Dean…" Sam's voice came out in a strangled croak. "I – I – can explain."

"I bet you can," Dean said ruefully.

"I just – it was just – God, I can explain…"

"You said that already," Dean said, his expression darkening.

"Well I'm trying!" Sam spat. "You don't know how hard it's been… working so hard and hoping that it would pay off. And then waiting and wondering and praying…"

Dean crossed his arms and watched Sam struggling with his explanation.

"But I couldn't say anything until I knew, ok, Dean?" Sam's eyes were pleading. "I know I should have said something sooner, but it takes the administration people a long time to process the applications for funding. And I couldn't say anything until I knew if I was even going to be able to afford it, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Explain it to me."

"Dean?" Sam sounded so sad with the simple plea. It was obvious he had hoped that Dean would be on his side in this. He needed Dean to be on his side, or he'd never make it past Dad.

"It's July, Sam." Dean wished he could make his voice sound warmer, but it was impossible when he felt so cold inside, like an Arctic winter had taken up residence in the dried husk that was his body. "It's actually the frickin' end of July. And according to Anne Bartlet, orientation starts on September 2nd."

"I know!" Sam conceded brokenly. "And believe me the waiting has been killing me. I only found out last week that I'd gotten the funding – a full ride." He smiled in spite of himself, feeling so pleased and proud to have managed to get a full scholarship that would cover his tuition and residence fees for the full four years, provided he kept his grades up. But Dean wasn't smiling back.

"So you've known since last week that you were definitely leaving," Dean prompted. "That you're definitely leaving in September."

Sam nodded, swallowing hard.

Dean sucked his top lip into his teeth and then bit it, releasing it with a huff.

"I should have said something when I found out," Sam conceded. "And it was wrong of me not to. But I just wanted to enjoy the moment for a bit. I wanted to have a second to feel proud before…" Sam heaved a sigh. "Before this."

Dean's eyes narrowed to a dangerous glare.

"Before what, Sam? Before your family got in the way and ruined everything?"

Sam's jaw jutted forward in an angry pout, his nostrils flaring.

"Maybe," he retorted. "Christ knows the minute I tell Dad the whole world is going to come to a grinding halt, Dean!"

"Yeah, because you're leaving in a freakin' month and you didn't say a damned word! Sneaking around like some kind of jailbird, applying to colleges and getting accepted and not even telling us! I mean what the hell, Sam?"

"I couldn't tell you until I knew about the funding!" Sam insisted. "There was no point until I knew!"

"Why the hell not?" Dean demanded. "What would have been so wrong with telling us back when you found out? Which would have been, when, March?"

Sam nodded solemnly.

"Why couldn't you tell us then? At least then we'd have had time to prepare."

"Prepare for what, Dean?" Sam said. "Prepared for the onslaught of arguments to convince me to stay? Prepared to chain me up somewhere to prevent me from going?"

"No, asshead!" Dean growled. "We could have made plans to A) help you get there and B) figure out what we were gonna do."

"What do you mean '_figure out what we were gonna do'_?"

Dean shrugged awkwardly.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But maybe we could go with you to California. Set up a homestead or headquarters or something… Some permanent place for you where Dad and I can crash between hunts."

Sam laughed mirthlessly.

"Like Dad would _ever_ go for that, Dean!" he spat.

"Why not?" Dean said. "Pastor Jim and Bobby both have homes. I mean, I know it's not ideal, but we could make do while you were in college."

"Are you smoking crack?" Sam asked incredulously. "This is Dad we're talking about. He'd never go for that."

"Well he might if you'd told him in March!" Dean retorted. "If you'd given me some freakin' time to work on him. Now he sure as hell won't."

Sam huffed loudly.

"He wouldn't have gone for it if I'd told him when I was six, Dean. With Dad it's his way or the highway. He doesn't compromise, especially for things that he thinks are unimportant – like my whole future."

"Don't be such a chick," Dean jibed. "Dad cares about your future a hell of a lot more than you think. He just has different ideas about what's best for you."

"At this point, I don't really care," Sam admitted. "I don't need his permission."

"Ok, just calm down Sammy," Dean cautioned. "Don't go flyin' off the handle and making things worse. We're already standing in a heap of shit with no shovel. We just need to think and come up with a plan. If we have a plan, then we can talk to Dad."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked. "I've already got a plan. I've been accepted, my funding is all sorted out, and I'm going. This really doesn't require any more planning."

"All right, Princess," Dean said lightly, trying to diffuse his brother, who had obviously worked himself up to a boiling point. "I'm not trying to convince you not to go. Look, I went to the library today and did some surfing on the net." He lifted the papers from under his arm to show Sam. "I found a couple of apartments that look like they'd be perfect for us to set up in. We could set you up with a desk or whatever for your room. So long as we had plenty of space to store our weapons in my room – and parking for the Impala, obviously – and then if we had a couch for Dad to crash on every now and then. We could convince him it was a good plan if I was with you, at least."

"If you were with me?" Sam demanded. "God, Dean, do you hear yourself? You actually want to go with me to Stanford?"

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, why the hell not? That way I could keep an eye out on you. And I wouldn't be in your way or anything, 'cos I'd be on the road a lot hunting, obviously…"

"But I don't want you to come with me!" Sam blurted out. "I want to try life on my own, have a little space! I don't want to live with you, wondering where you are or if you're dead or dying every time you leave the house! I don't want to wake up to you stumbling in injured and needing impromptu medical patchwork after you've had your guts torn out by a Wendigo or a Black Dog. I'm tired of all of it. I can't do it anymore!"

Now it was Dean's turn to open and close his mouth dumbly, unblinkingly, like a fish in a tank.

The truth hadn't sunk in yet. His stubborn Winchester mind was still trying to work its way around the giant obstacle in front of him.

"So you're _leaving_ leaving? You don't just want to go to school, you want to get away… from us?"

"This isn't the life I want, Dean," Sam said flatly. "You and Dad – it's what you live and breathe. But it's not for me. I'm out. I'm done. I'm going to Stanford and I'm starting a new life."

Sam paused, watching his brother intently, taking in the sight of his formerly red cheeks as they drained of colour. Dean went from an angry red to white as a sheet in a matter of seconds, and at first Sam thought maybe he had been too blunt. But then he realized that Dean was looking at something beyond Sam, something over his shoulder. Sam's insides froze as he heard the distinct sound of a duffel bag being dropped loudly onto the ground near the door.

"Starting a new life?" his father's gravelly voice sounded from the door.

888

"Son, you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?"

Sam felt as if the bottom of his stomach had fallen out, and wondered idly if this is what it felt like to be disembowelled. His father was standing at the door, his dark eyes set in an angry scowl, his hands wide at his sides as though he were looking for an opponent to hit or push.

"Dad," Sam breathed, swallowing past the panic rising in him. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. The million times he had imagined having this conversation, he had always managed to find some way to brace his father for the shock. But to be overheard like this…? The bottom had officially just dropped out.

"Did I just hear you telling your brother that you're leaving us to start a new life?" The wrath of John Winchester was just bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed, like too much air blown into a balloon as it expands beyond capacity, bloated and thinning to transparent just before it bursts.

"Dad, hang on," Dean began, but was completely ignored.

"DID I JUST HEAR MY SON SAY THAT HE IS OUT? THAT HE IS DONE? THAT HE IS STARTING A NEW LIFE?"

_Pop._

Sam rose from his seat at the table, kicking the chair away for dramatic effect.

"Yeah Dad, you did!" he challenged. "I've got my ticket outta here and I'm taking it. Full scholarship to Stanford. I start in September."

John's chest was heaving with anger.

"I can't believe you," he said, shaking his head in denial. "You would walk out on your family? On your responsibilities? On all those innocent people whose lives we save?"

"This is your vendetta Dad, not mine!" Sam shouted. "I never wanted this life – have always hated it – and now that I have a chance to get out, I'm taking it! I can't _do_ this anymore!"

"Come on, Sammy, you can't mean that," Dean pleaded, but no one heard him.

"You can just go on to some cookie cutter life and pretend that people aren't _dying_ while you schmooze with all the pampered dandies at Stanford?" John demanded accusingly. "You're ok with allowing other families to be torn apart like ours was, just so you can have it easier?"

"Our family was torn apart because you tore it apart!" Sam said savagely. "Other families lose someone and they deal with it and move on. But not John Winchester!"

"Both of you stop!" Dean warned. "Take a breather before you say something you regret."

"No, you had to get revenge," Sam went on. It was as if Dean had never spoken. "Instead of taking care of us – teaching us how to get on in life like normal human beings – you taught us how to be afraid, and how to kill things, and how to be bitter and lonely and completely isolated – just like you!"

"Shut up!" John breathed. "Shut up, or so help me I will shut you up!"

"When normal people lose a loved one to fire or natural disaster or hell, even murder, they grieve and then they move on! But you couldn't move on, so you just dragged us along on your stupid quest for revenge! But you never stopped for one second to think about what was best for us, or what we really needed!"

"Sam, stop!" Dean shouted.

"I did what I thought was best," John bellowed. "I did it to protect you because that's what parents do. Now maybe _normal people_ would witness a death like your mother's and would be happy to stick their heads up their asses and pretend that evil doesn't exist, but I'm not wired that way, Sam!"

"Knowing what's out there isn't the problem!" Sam countered. "It's what you did with that knowledge – turning us into soldiers in your crusade – that's the problem!"

"And if I hadn't?" John sparred. "If I'd taken that knowledge and said a silent prayer every night, hoping that _God_ was maybe fucking listening and would take care of you boys, what then? What do you think would have happened to all those people whose lives we've saved, huh? You think someone else would have saved them?"

"It's not our job to save people!"

"YES, IT IS!"

"Guys, stop!" Dean shouted. He felt suddenly very short, standing beside the towering figures of Sam and John Winchester, toe to toe, chests heaving with rage, heat radiating off of their bodies in waves, as they failed to notice his presence so close to them.

"You're selfish!" John growled, never taking his eyes off of Sam, not even registering that his eldest was still in the room. "You're a selfish, spoiled little brat. I thought I raised you better than that, but I guess we coddled you too much in trying to keep you safe from the worst of it. Maybe Dean looking out for you all the time was just keeping you soft enough to only care about your own damned life and to hell with the rest of us!"

"Coddled me?" Sam snorted, his cheeks burning red with ire. "Who the hell coddled me? My whole life has been a nightmare of monsters, sleepless nights, hunger, blood, and gore! No one's ever even paid attention to what _I_ wanted – ever!"

"Well sometimes, Sam, it isn't about what you want," John rasped. "There are things bigger and more important than what we want."

"That's rich, coming from you," Sam countered. "You're the one calling the shots all the time. You _always_ get what you want."

"You think this is what I want?"

"It's all you've ever wanted," Sam parried. "Me and Dean following you around hell and creation like two mindless, obedient little soldiers."

"Well I've always wanted a giant Pam Anderson doll," Dean added for effect, marvelling at the fact that his words continued to fall on completely deaf ears. "But that was before I apparently became invisible and mute and ceased to exist."

"I want to keep you safe!" John insisted. "Everything I've ever done has been to keep you boys safe."

"How?" Sam demanded incredulously. "By throwing us in the path of all those evil things that kill all those innocent people you keep talking about? By throwing us in the middle of all that evil, so that all we ever see is evil, so that we can't even see the good anymore? That's not safe, Dad. That's kamikaze. It's suicidal!"

"Well if it's so bad," John countered, "how come Dean's ok with it, huh? Dean knows how important this job is. He knows that his responsibilities lie here, with this family, hunting down evil so that innocent people – people like your mother – don't have to die! If I'm such a terrible father, and this is such a terrible life, how come Dean is on board with it while you're not, huh?"

"Because Dean thinks you're a fucking hero, Dad!" Sam spat. "Because he worships the ground you walk on! Because you've got him brainwashed into thinking that if he sacrifices enough, it'll actually be enough for you."

"Yeah, ok," Dean said darkly. "Standing right here, guys."

"No," John retorted. "Dean is on board because he knows that this is right. He knows that what he's doing here, hunting and destroying evil, is important. It saves lives. He does this because he's selfless. You? You're just too selfish to think about anything but yourself."

"No," Sam insisted. "I'm just smart enough to know the difference between obedience and love. And I know for damned sure that giving you the one will never get me the other."

888

It was like being stuck in a dream where the world suddenly slows down and you see yourself walking through crowded streets while everything else zooms past you while you're still operating in slow motion. In this distorted world, no one sees you or hears you because you're in a different space and time. Dean watched in horror as his father and brother slung soul-crushing insults at each other, but no matter what he said or did they only had eyes for each other. He was sorely tempted to fire a few rounds of buckshot into the wall just to get their attention, because shouting obviously wasn't registering on either of their radars.

"I'm just smart enough to know the difference between obedience and love," he heard Sam say. "And I know for damned sure that giving you the one will never get me the other."

Dean had never heard Sam be so cutting before, so mean. And what was with that dig about being smart enough to know the difference? And about Dean being brainwashed? If he weren't in such complete shock about what was happening, and if the insults weren't coming so quickly, he might have had time to digest them and feel the sting of them. But the sharp barbs cut so quick and clean that Dean barely had time to register them. He knew, though, that when the moment ended the world would come crashing down. And then he would feel it and it would hurt like a bitch, for all of them.

"Fine!" John suddenly said savagely. "If you think you've got it all figured out, then go. Go to Stanford and start your new life. There's obviously nothing keeping you here."

"Ok Dad, wait!" Dean pleaded. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Neither of them wanted Sam to leave. Dean was certain of that. But their Dad was doing his damnedest to push him away. Everything was suddenly spiralling out of control.

"Oh I'm going!" Sam said ruefully. "When September comes I'll be moving to California and away from this freak show!"

"Sammy, just… please!" Dean begged. "Just think about what you're –"

"Why wait?" John said. "If this life is so horrible, and the work we do is so unbearable, then far be it from me to keep you here against your will for the next month."

"No," Dean heard himself say. "No, no no no."

This couldn't be happening. They were supposed to be a family. Dean was supposed to be able to fix this. Only Sam didn't want it fixed. Sam wanted out. Sam wanted away. Away from them… from him.

"You want me to leave now?" Sam asked archly, stomping to the dresser on the far wall next to his bed and opening the drawers in a huff, tearing out the few items of clothes that he owned and stuffing them into his duffel bag. "Because all you have to do is just say the word and I'm gone!"

"I think I just did," John intoned.

"Sammy please, wait!" Dean cried, feeling truly desperate. He needed to make him stay, to stop him from leaving. He couldn't leave like this.

"Fine!" Sam snapped. His long arms snatching at the few items of his on his side of the room. "Fine! I'm gone!"

He rounded the bed and stormed toward the bathroom to collect his toothbrush and shaving gear. In a desperate attempt to prevent him from leaving, Dean grabbed Sam's duffel bag and dumped its contents back onto Sam's bed. When Sam returned from the bathroom he snatched the empty bag out of Dean's hand without a word and began re-stuffing the bag, shoving each item in with an angry stab of his right arm.

"No point in drawing this out anyway," Sam muttered. "Best to just tear off the band-aid."

"Sammy you can't leave like this!" Dean pleaded. "Dad, stop him!"

"There's the door," John whispered darkly. "But if you walk out that door… You walk out? You don't ever come back."

Dean froze at those words. He watched in horror as Sam's resolve solidified into something terrifyingly concrete, like cement. John and Sam stared at each other for an agonizingly long moment, each one spitting venom at the other with a single look, neither one conscious of anything else but the intense, angry gaze boring into him, until Sam finally broke it. Without a word he marched ahead, snatching his knapsack from the floor and quickly stuffing his laptop into it, then storming past his father at the door and placing a hand on the knob with one final look at his father.

"No," Dean breathed, his breath catching in his throat.

And then Sam was gone.

888

And now he most definitely couldn't breathe. Gills were expanding madly to pull in that oxygen, scales flashing like violent shards of steel in the glint of sunlight as the head and tail thrashed madly, desperately, in death throws. This fish was gasping for air and none would come.

Dean could see dark spots forming over his eyes and had to bend over, hands against his knees, to keep himself from falling over. He could hear the grumbling sound of his father's deep voice somewhere nearby, but he couldn't make out the words. Most likely his father still didn't even remember he was in the room.

Everything went hot and cold together, waves of ice and fire slicing through him simultaneously, and Dean only had a moment to register the strange numbness as it crept up his hands, tingling through the back of his head, before everything went blissfully dark. He didn't even feel his face as it collided with the floor when his knees buckled and he went down in a boneless heap.

"Damnit Dean!"

Someone was shouting. Had he closed his eyes?

"Come on, kiddo," the voice said, and a hand was suddenly ghosting over his forehead.

Dean blinked, stunned and confused to see his father's worried face looming over him. He was lying on his back, on the floor, his dad's knees pressed painfully against his ribs, his own legs splayed at an odd angle, crossed over each other, as though he had been twisted only part-way from his stomach to his back.

"Dad?" Dean mumbled, the fog and dizziness clouding his vision somewhat. He couldn't figure out what he was doing on the floor, or why the right side of his face felt like it was stinging and on fire.

"Dean!" his dad said wearily, relief softening his dark brown eyes. "You gave me a scare there, kiddo."

"Dude, did I just faint?" Dean asked, twitching his fingers reflexively, as if crawling back into his body and wiggling into his limbs as one would wiggle into a pair of gloves.

"Face plant to the floor," John said.

Dean made a move to sit up, but his father's hand on his shoulder pushed him gently back down.

"Just give it a few more minutes," John said calmly. "Take it easy."

Dean took a few deep breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth, in, out, in, out, until he felt the fog clear away completely. The dizziness had passed and he felt confident that he could sit up now without keeling over.

"Ready?" John asked, recognizing the clarity in his son's eyes at his readiness to get back on his feet.

"Yah," Dean said, taking his father's proffered hand and peeling himself up off the floor. His legs were only mildly wobbly, but once he made it to a full standing position he felt the earth solidify beneath him. Sufficiently grounded to stand without tripping or toppling over, he made his way to the bed and sat wearily down. His face stung like a mother from the severe carpet burn his nosedive to the floor had earned him.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asked.

"Got me," his father said, watching him intently. "You were quiet as a mouse while uh… well, while everything was goin' on. And then you just went down like a stone."

And then everything came flooding back. Sam. Sam had left. Sam was gone.

"Oh God!" Dean whispered, the colour draining from his face once again. "Dad, he's gone!"

John nodded solemnly, the softness of his features hardening instantly, his eyes suddenly blazing intensely once again as though Sam were still in the room to resume the fight they'd just finished.

"I know," he said.

"Well we have to go get him back!" Dean insisted. "We can't just let him leave like that!"

"Yes we can," John said firmly. "Your brother made his choice, Dean. He doesn't want to be here, so it's best for all of us that he stays gone. He'll only be a liability if he sticks around with his head not in the game."

Dean stared up at him from his seat on the bed in complete and utter confusion.

"Dad, what the hell are you talking about?" he asked. "Sam's gone! Sam just packed his shit and _left!_"

"That's his decision, Dean."

"Like hell it is! You told him to leave!"

John looked at his eldest son archly. "So?"

"So," Dean said emphatically. "Get out there and tell him to come back!"

"Absolutely not," John huffed. "I'm done dragging that boy along kicking and screaming through a life he hates. He wants out. He's out."

"But he's alone!" Dean half screamed. Even as he said it he felt a cold chill tear through his body and thought for a moment that he might throw up. Sam was alone. Sam was wandering the streets right now, everything he owned on his back, and he was completely alone.

John could sense the panic that had crept up his son's spine, chilling him from within, and in an instant he was soft again, crouching at his son's side and sitting next to him on the bed, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Dean," he said. "Just breathe, ok? Breathe, son. You gotta calm down."

But Dean wasn't listening.

"Dad, we gotta get him back," he pleaded desperately. "He doesn't start until September. We've still got time to figure somethin' out – so that we can still be a family."

But John was shaking his head no.

"No Dean, we can't." He wasn't arguing. It was a simple statement of fact. "Point of no return, buddy. Sam just walked out on us. He ain't comin' back, kiddo."

"He didn't walk out on us," Dean said, almost soundlessly. "You told him to go. _You_ told him to leave."

The sigh that came from John Winchester rattled his entire frame.

"I gave him a way out," he said simply. "He was screaming for it, and I gave it to him. It's what he wants. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want us. If he did, you'd be out that door right now following him to California."

And before he could stop himself, Dean felt his face crumble as anguish overtook him and the tears flooded from his eyes. He hadn't wanted to admit it, hadn't wanted to hear it or believe it, but Sam had told him plain as day that he didn't want Dean to come with him – didn't want to keep the family together. He wanted to get away. He wanted to leave, to get away, _from_ _him_. Everything Dean had, everything he cared about, was in this room, and half of it had just walked out the door, away from him, with no intention of ever coming back. He'd lost his brother, his baby, his best friend (his only friend), in one fell swoop. And Sam hadn't even cast him one last parting glance.

He didn't even try to hide the tears, didn't try to school his face back to the mask of calm, because he couldn't, and because he didn't care to. His dad would forgive him this moment of weakness. Hell, Dean knew that underneath the anger John was probably hurting as much as he was, probably more, because he'd been the one to push Sam into taking that final step. So they grieved together in silence, Dean sniffling through the empty feeling inside, the giant, gaping, Sam-shaped hole inside him that howled like a swirling vortex, while John idly rifled through the apartment adverts Dean had printed off earlier that afternoon.

"You know, for all your swagger, Dean," John said lightly, "you're one hell of a big softie."

Dean smiled faintly and looked up at his dad, only to lose the smile instantly at the sight of the tears now crinkling from John Winchester's squinting eyes.

"Oh Jesus, Dad," Dean said wearily. "Don't you even start."

If John couldn't keep it together Dean knew he was about a nanosecond away from turning into a complete and utter chick, complete with blubbering, sobbing, and gorging on Haagen Daas. He had to get out of the motel room, and he had to get out now.

"Where are you going?" John asked as Dean suddenly shot to his feet.

"I gotta get outta here," Dean said, taking a deep breath and wiping a sleeve across his tear-stained face. "I think I'm going to go drink my face off and crawl into a nice ditch. Care to join me?"

"I think I'll pass," John said. "You gonna be ok?"

"No," Dean said brusquely. "But what're'ya gonna do, right?"

"Will you be back tonight?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably not." He grabbed the keys to the Impala. It didn't matter what time he got back, Dean thought ruefully. John's room was adjoining to the one Dean and Sam shared. Dean could come in at any hour he pleased without worrying about waking anyone up. There was no Sam here to be considerate of. When he did come back he'd be coming back to an empty room.

"All right," John said. "Just, be careful, huh?"

"Yeah, you know I will."


	2. Lost and Found

**Chapter Notes**:

Just a bit of warning -- this chapter is a little sexy (though not in any way explicit). I just didn't want to offend anyone's sensibilities with a little pawing and groping that leads to grunting and... _you know_. Again, not explicit (that's not my thing), but enough that you definitely know what's going on. *a-hem* Moving on... This one's a shortish chapter, so I decided to go ahead and post it, instead of waiting for tomorrow. Sort of like a teaser. Hope you enjoy -- and thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed! Your kind words feed my muse and make me all kinds of happy. :)

* * *

888

The music was loud, and terrible, pounding out an incessant, steady beat that hummed through his chest, thudding with numbing consistency like a second heartbeat. Janet Jackson's "It's All For You" blared from loud speakers lining the dance floor while men and women – mostly women – swayed to the rhythm on the crowded floor, pressed together like sardines in a giant meat grinder. Dean intensely disliked the dance club scene, but it was the perfect place to get plastered, get lost, and find some random chick to get lost with. In a place like this the girls would outnumber the guys three-to-one, as opposed to the bars he usually frequented, which tended to have more patrons of the XY variety. Dean suspected the dance floor was largely to blame.

But tonight he was looking for better ratios. More women meant better chances of getting laid, and right now all he wanted to do was get stupidly drunk and then fuck his brains out. It was like a carnal drive, a gut-deep need to just fill that whirling void with something, anything, so that he wouldn't feel so empty and numb. The only numbness he could tolerate right now was the whiskey soaked oblivion of gross intoxication, and the boneless collapse of a body completely spent in love-making. That was the kind of comfort he was seeking.

"Now that's a man's drink," a female voice called to him, close to his ear, as he tossed a few bills onto the bar and reached for his fourth glass of whiskey. "You looking to walk out of here under your own steam or be carried out on a stretcher?"

Dean paused before taking a sip, turning to look at the stunning brunette who was squashed next to him at the bar, her shoulder almost pressed against him as people behind her jostled their way forward in an attempt to squeeze their way to the front of the line-up for drinks. The entire club was packed.

"Well I'm not really sure," Dean admitted, shouting over the loudness of the music and the crowd around them. "But for what it's worth, I've got quite a lot of steam."

"I bet you do," she said ruefully, giving him a coy smile.

It was almost impossible not to look at her cleavage: they were so close, and being taller than she was, he had to look down to look at her. And there they were, tanned and round, peeking playfully from the edge of a lacy white tanktop. A fellow patron fell forward and suddenly the breasts were pressed against Dean's chest when she lost her footing.

"Sorry," she said, blushing as she regained her balance, pulling her body away from Dean's.

"Not a problem," Dean replied, grinning.

"So listen," she said. "You wanna come join me and my friends over there at our table?"

She pointed at a cluster of tiny tables on the far side of the room where a group of people, guys and girls alike, were crowded together, several of them waving at their friend at the bar as she caught their attention with a wiggle of her fingers in the air.

"Thanks," Dean said, "but no thanks. I'm not really looking to make friends right now."

She gave him an arch look.

"You here by yourself?" she asked, noticing that he didn't appear to have a girl hanging off of his arm, and that he hadn't yet made a move to leave the bar, even though he already had his drink.

"Yup."

She arched an eyebrow.

"Then what _are_ you looking for?" she asked.

Dean gave her a look, _the look_, that left nothing to the imagination as to what he was looking for.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing and her lashes fluttering slightly. But she didn't back down.

888

The cold wall of the bathroom stall, solid concrete smattered copiously with glossy gray paint, sent a chill down his back as it made contact with his bare flesh. Hands sought madly for the secret, tender places, lips pressing against lips, tongues teasing tantalizingly in and out. Her mouth tasted sweet, like whatever fruity chick drink she'd been sucking back all night, and Dean savoured the faint mango smell of her hair as he stole away from her lips to her neck. The women's washroom was as good a place as any, and this one was luckily tucked away on the top floor, away from the crowded dance floor below, so it got less traffic, though he thought he heard the sound of someone retching in the stall next to the one that he and his beautiful brunette were getting steamy in. He was too drunk to care.

Their shirts were on the floor already, their stomachs pressing together and then separating as they busied themselves with the hiking of her skirt and the unzipping of his pants. And then his arms were around her waist, pulling her hips toward his as she made a small leap, wrapping her legs around him as he steadied her weight with his hands on her ass.

He gasped at the connection, abandoning himself to the warmth blossoming in his midsection. This wasn't pain, or hurt, or abandonment – this wasn't being left behind, being forgotten. This was letting go and being found at the same time. The brunette, God, he didn't even know her name, was panting in ragged gasps, stifling a moan as their hips moved together, as he moved within her. He wanted to get lost in her, to fly away on that toe-curling feeling of ecstasy and never come back from it.

She cried out in spite of her intention to be quiet, a kind of sharp gasped, inhaled cry of pleasure. The sound warmed him, both in his soul and in his body. It ignited his passion even as it ignited some strange sense of purpose within him. _Look Dean_, he thought, _you're not driving someone away or killing something. You're making her feel good. You're doing something right_. It was a familiar dialogue, one he had had with himself before.

For Dean Winchester, sex was a many splendoured thing. It was a means of letting off steam, of letting go, of connecting, of feeling good and making someone else feel good. It had always been a special kind of private escape for him, but now it was something more. This was grasping. He knew it. This was a desperate attempt to be close to someone, anyone, so that he didn't have to feel alone. It was pathetic. It was weak. But right now he didn't care. Sam was gone. Dad was on the verge of becoming a wreck, which meant soon they'd be leaping headlong into some kind of suicidal hunt so that they could both keep busy enough to not feel Sam's absence. But right now Dean was happy distracting himself in the best way he knew how.

He felt no qualms about banging some nameless chick in a bathroom stall in the ladies' room at the Cosmo Club. He was swimmingly drunk and feeling no pain, his body lost in hedonistic abandon to the pleasures of the flesh. And by the sounds of her joy-cries, the nameless one was getting her boots filled. All in all, Dean was pretty pleased with himself.

Until he woke up several hours later in a complete, world-spinning fog of nausea and blinding headache. The entire room tilted when he opened his eyes and he had to grab hold of the bed to steady himself as he waited for the overwhelming vertigo to pass. He was alone, back in his motel room, and only half-dressed. His shirt was tossed in a heap on the floor, his pants trapped around his ankles from where he had tried removing them with his boots still on. The carpet burn on his face had dried out as it began to heal and now felt tight and slightly scabby. And he really needed to vomit.

The stallion from last night's sexcapades found himself crawling shamelessly along the floor, dragging his sorry, drunken ass toward the bathroom with his chin held up high as he attempted to hold the puke in until he could reach the toilet. It was a struggle: his jeans around his ankles acted like shackles, binding his feet close together so that he had to either inch or hurl himself across the floor. Dean opted for hurling, as he was rapidly losing the battle to hold the vomit in.

At long last he reached the bathroom, making one final lunge forward to grasp the toilet bowl. The heaves were painful in their intensity, his body lurching angrily to expel the unwanted and excessive alcohol. But in the end, the puking helped. The nausea melted back somewhat, though his hands still trembled against the porcelain as he tried to hold himself up. Then, trusting that the spasms had ended for the time being, he eased himself onto the floor, his sweaty back cooled against the cold fibreglass of the bathtub behind him.

Beyond the bathroom he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing, and by instinct he sat up, reaching for his pants to pull them up before his father could find him in his pitiful, degraded state, but the nausea rose like a wave and he immediately gave up, resting once again against the bathtub. Shuffling feet and a groggy, garbled call of, "Dean?" let him know right away that his father wasn't in much better shape.

The shuffling got closer. He looked up blearily to see his father, his face dark and drawn, his eyes droopy and his lips parted stupidly, looking down on him as he leaned against the door frame for support.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said in a gravelly voice that sounded like rocks running over sandpaper. Then his eyes took in the full sight of his half-dressed son lying helpless and dejected on the floor.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Too much whiskey," Dean mumbled, laying his right arm over his forehead to block out the light, which his father had just turned on. "You?"

John laughed.

"Like father like son." Then he winced and held a hand to his own throbbing head.

"I thought you were going to pass on the whole getting shitfaced front," Dean said, not bothering to look up.

"Changed my mind," John replied. "Do you need a hand with that?" He waved a hand in the general direction of the tangle of jeans around Dean's feet.

"If you're offering…"

John bent low and began untying his son's boots for him, huffing a laugh at the pathetic state he and his son found themselves in. It had been a hard night, though he suspected Dean had found more than one way to keep himself occupied in his grief.

"So how do you s'pose Sam's doin'?" Dean asked as his father pulled off Dean's right boot.

888

After a long, long walk along the highway with his thumb held aloft, and an even longer night squashed into the cab of old Earl Langley's truck, Sam was deliriously happy to find himself hitching comfortably in the back seat of Maureen Johnson's Ford Mustang. Granted, it was cramped, and his long legs were nearly driven up to his chest as he sat squashed in the back seat with her cousin Darla while Maureen and her sister Jenny discussed the finer points of Bradd Pitt's career in the front, it was still infinitely better than Earl's cab. Sam had been cold, hungry, and bored stiff listening to the sixty-something year-old man talk about his many and varied bodily ailments as he hacked up a lung and nearly ran off the road in his eighteen-wheeler with Sam clinging desperately to the door as his young life flashed before his eyes. Grateful though he was for the lift, he had never been so happy to get out of a vehicle in his entire life.

When the Mustang pulled alongside him barely ten minutes after his release from the transport from Hell, Sam couldn't believe his luck. The three young women inside were immediately taken in by Sam's puppy dog eyes and unassuming look – the mop of shaggy brown hair definitely helped. Sam knew that if Dean were here the constant chatter would have ended abruptly with the ring of buckshot and a few choice curses, but Sam found the prattle to be strangely soothing.

These were normal girls. Their playful banter and at times mindless talk was ordinary and not of the supernatural kind, and he was happy to be immersed in it because to him, it signalled the beginning of a new era. The Age of Sam: College Boy Extraordinaire! Though truthfully, Sam hoped that the girls at Stanford were a little bit deeper than these three. For now, though, it suited him well enough that the young women were chatting away. It left his mind free to wander.

This was it. When he thought about it too much, his hands would start to shake and his gut would wrench. He had left. He had packed his bags and walked out the door. No second glances, no turning back. Sam was on his own. For years he had longed for this, prayed for this, but now that it was here, he felt terrified and kind of empty. It would pass, he knew, but the overwhelming feeling of being suddenly tossed to the wolves, albeit of his own choosing, left him really wishing that Dean was here.

Had he even said goodbye to Dean?, he wondered. The twisting knot in his stomach told him he hadn't. God, he hadn't even looked at him when he left. He was just so mad: and Dad had told him to leave and never come back. Was that excuse enough, though? Would Dean understand?, he wondered. Probably not. Dean was John Winchester's perfect son. Wherever John went Dean would follow.

_Dean is selfless… You're a selfish, spoiled brat. Dean's on board… Dean understands that what we're doing is important…_ His father's voice, with those stinging words, echoed stabbingly through his brain. He had made it very clear that Sam was the living embodiment of all that is disappointing in a son, while Dean was truly the apple of his eye.

And for that matter, where the hell was Dean when Dad was saying all this? Why hadn't he stood up for him? Why had he been happy to just stand back and allow their dad to cut Sam apart and banish him forever?

His heart sank within him. He knew why Dean had been quiet. Deep down he knew: Dean agreed with their dad. He thought that hunting was the most important thing in the world, and that Sam walking away was like a betrayal to the family. So Dean had zipped his mouth shut and had listened silently to the tirade because he agreed with Dad. Sam had never felt so alone in his entire life.

"So you say you're starting Stanford in the Fall, huh?" Maureen asked, yanking him away from his dark thoughts.

"Yeah," Sam said weakly.

"And you're hitch-hiking there because…?"

Sam shrugged.

"It's a long story."

Jenny turned in her seat to look at Sam, smiling sweetly.

"Well that's what road trips are for, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he corrected, clearing his throat. Only Dean was allowed to call him Sammy. And right now he was angry and upset with Dean.

"So you running away or something?" Maureen asked bluntly, eying him briefly through the rear-view mirror before turning her eyes back to the road. "Sneaking off in the dead of night to go to Stanford?" She laughed, clearly thinking that her suggestion was absurd.

"Pretty much," Sam admitted.

"Are you serious?" It was Darla speaking now. "You ran away to go to college?"

Sam nodded. Their shock and dismay was making him feel less and less like a disobedient freak.

"Jesus," Darla exclaimed. "Who's your family, the Von Trapps?"

"How'd you guess?" Sam joked, feigning light-heartedness. The truth was he was feeling heavy right through to his soul, and talking about him running away was making him feel worse.

"Aw, well that's too bad," Jenny said. "I guess families can be a big pain sometimes, especially when they've got plans for you that don't quite jive with what you wanna do, right?"

"I swear, if my mom tells me to go into Computer Sciences _'cos that's where the money's at,'_ one more time I'm going to scream," Maureen said emphatically. "She's convinced that the acting gig is going to leave me a waitress for the rest of my life. Which is probably true, but still. It's the principle."

"You're an actress?" Sam asked, his curiosity piqued. He had wanted to ask how old everyone was, and what they did for a living, but hadn't wanted to pry.

"A crappy one, yeah," she replied with a laugh. "Who am I kidding? I'm so totally going to end up waitressing for the rest of my life."

She laughed a hearty belly laugh, as if being a waitress against her parents' wishes was the funniest and greatest achievement ever.

"She wants me to go back to school," Maureen explained. "Both my parents do. But I'm happy doing what I'm doing, so I say screw it."

"Come on, Mo," Jenny coaxed. "That's not really fair. Mom just doesn't want to see you miss your chance to get an education."

"Says the second-year Bio major who's going to be a doctor," Maureen muttered. "You're mom and dad's dream kid."

"Huh." So the sisters in the front were definitely older than Sam. He suspected that the eldest, Maureen, might even be Dean's age. "So do you talk to your parents still? Are you on good terms with them?"

"When we're not trying to kill each other, sure." Her eyes glanced again through the rear-view mirror. "Listen, Sam, the Von Trapps are gonna be just fine. Just give it a little time and whatever's got you high-tailing it out of town will have blown over."

Sam highly doubted that. _Stubbornness, thy name is John Winchester_.

Still, it was comforting to listen to the two siblings in the front seat. They got along well, though they were night and day different in temperament, lifestyle, and appearance. The eldest was tall and athletic-looking, with dark hair and intense eyes – a perfect look for an actress, in Sam's opinion; while the younger was slight, petite, with pixie short blonde hair and soft blue eyes. One was an actress, the other a Biology major. And yet when they joked around, there was no mistaking the similarities in the sense of humour: their in-jokes were so numerous it was hard to follow their conversations.

Suddenly Sam felt a deep pang of regret, thinking about Dean. He'd have to drive by himself in the Impala now that Sam was gone. There'd be no one to joke with in the car, no one to play music Nazi for, no one to play stupid pranks on. No one to watch his back.

All at once he was overwhelmed by the urge to turn back and go home. How could he have left Dean? He hadn't even said goodbye! And what was he thinking, playing at being Joe Normal at Stanford of all places? He was going to be laughed off of campus. There was no way he'd fit in with all those classy, rich kids. Maybe he'd been fooling himself into thinking he could do this. Maybe he should go home.

… _if you walk out that door… You walk out? You don't ever come back._

Sam couldn't go home. That proverbial door was closed to him now. His dad didn't want him to come back. Sam had committed a Cardinal Sin. He'd abandoned the family, abandoned the mission. And Dean agreed with him. He knew Dean didn't want him gone, but that didn't mean Dean wasn't disappointed in him. And he couldn't bear to see the disappointment on his brother's face. He just wished he could make him understand. Sam just didn't belong there.

And whether out of sadness, desperation, stubbornness, or anger, Sam never did know which, he decided that he would not reply to the three texts that he'd already received from Dean, except to send a hasty, _"Caught the bus. Will b in Cali soon. Sam."_ If he was being honest with himself, Sam suspected the real reason was that he was a coward. He _was_ running away.


	3. Nobody Told Me

It was an earlier morning than he would have liked. John Winchester had risen some time before nine and without warning the world had gone from groggy, puke-inducing nausea to shouting and rude awakenings. Dean felt his father's calloused hands grip his shoulders in a firm shake, and then the covers were yanked unceremoniously away from his overly warm body. _What the hell?_

"Up!" John ordered, his face pale in the morning light. "I want you dressed and out on manoeuvres in ten."

"Wha…" Dean mumbled, squinting against the harsh light as it splintered into his bleary eyes, knifing through his brain. He hoped he had heard wrong, or pretended he did, and buried his face in his pillow.

"UP!" John repeated, yanking the pillow away from Dean's head with a snap. "If I don't see those feet moving in the next three seconds I'm adding twenty-pound weights to each ankle. You got me?"

_You've gotta be freakin' kidding me._

Dean groaned in protest and slugged his legs over the side of the bed, making sure that his father saw them touching the floor as he tried to pry his aching limbs up from their prone position.

"Dad, what's goin' on?" Dean mumbled, trying to find his voice in the wreckage of what he assumed was a frog carcass in his throat.

"You're getting back into shape, that's what's going on," John said brusquely. "I need you sharp, Dean, now that we're down one man…" Dean watched as his father swallowed hard, choking down that particularly difficult pill to swallow – that Sam was gone and they were on their own – and saw that the muscles in his jaw were flexing angrily.

"Just 'cos your brother's gone, doesn't mean I can let you drop the ball."

Dean stared at him for a moment in stunned silence. Drop the ball? When had he dropped the ball? Hadn't Sam only just left yesterday?

"I don't know what you're sittin' there gawking for," John said irritably. "You got seven minutes."

And with that, the man stalked away to his adjoining room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean felt as though he had missed something. Dad was pissed, that much was clear. He was mad at Sam, probably mad at himself, but now he apparently was mad at Dean as well. And seriously, drop the ball? That had Dean's mind reeling. Had he fucked up already? That hardly seemed fair, considering Dad had gotten just as plastered the night before as Dean had. But then, Dean supposed that the reaction was natural. After all, he knew he was a poor substitute for Sam.

_Sam_.

On any other day like this, when Dad's erratic mood swings spelled hours of torturous exercise and training, Sam would have been there to share in the misery, to trade quips with him about how the old man was cracking in his old age, and to keep him on his toes so that he didn't get beat by the little (or, more accurately, _HUGE_) guy. But Sammy was gone. He had left to start his new life, leaving Dean alone to face his father's bi-polar-esque moods.

Sam had always been something of a buffer for Dean. He somehow always managed to more or less keep their dad in line, as though Sam's presence kept him in check, preventing him from saying every little dark thing that crossed his mind. He was like John Winchester's balance check or moral compass. One look from Sam would clearly say, '_Dad, you're being a dick._' And though John would argue, it mostly guaranteed that he would also back off. And sometimes Dean really needed his dad to back off. He could be so hot and cold with him: supportive and proud one moment; harsh, judgmental and impossible to please the next. He rarely looked Dean in the eye, which was a particular source of pain for the eldest son, who saw the sun rise and set in his father's deep, chocolate-brown orbs, and who secretly longed to share moments of closeness with him. But the older he got, the fewer and farther between those moments became. Sometimes Dean got the feeling that John Winchester found it painful to be around him.

He would have given his left arm to know why. If it was something he had done, he figured his father would have told him. After all, John Winchester was not a man to allow any deed to go unpunished. If Dean had transgressed, his father would let him know it, and how. So Dean knew it likely wasn't something he'd said or done. Which meant something much worse. It was Dean himself that John had a problem with.

It was a truth Dean didn't like to acknowledge to himself, but one that crept upon him often enough. That inherent something, the quintessential essence of Dean Winchester, that somehow earned him the stink-eye from respectable people: teachers, doctors, police officers. For as long as he could remember he'd been the recipient of that watchful, distrusting, weary gaze from men and women alike, as though he were some strange breed of animal that needed to be kept at a distance and watched carefully. _It might bite_, that look said. And whatever it was that had set him apart as some dangerous animal to be kept at arm's length, it had certainly kept him under the world-weary gaze of his father.

He'd been getting that look for so long he didn't even bother to ponder it anymore when it came from strangers. They saw something in him, probably sensed that black pit of ugly deep at his core, and wanted to skirt away from it. He really couldn't blame them, if he was being honest with himself. He'd burn it away, tear it out from inside him, if he could. But it was part of him. Hell, it _was_ him.

And maybe John knew it. In fact, he probably did.

Dean got ready in a rush, quickly brushing his teeth and throwing on a not-so-fresh pair of clothes. If he was going to be running around outside in the late July heat, there was definitely no point in putting clean clothes on. He filled a plastic bottle full of cold water, drinking it down in three giant gulps, and then refilled it for the road, knowing that it would be hours before he would have a chance to get more.

Then the door to the adjoining room opened and John's head peeked through.

"Ready?" he asked gruffly.

Dean nodded, smiling at his dad in spite of the throbbing pain in his head.

"All set," he said cheerfully, hoping his father would give him points for trying to sound enthused. If he did his best, and he vowed he would, in spite of the hideous hang-over, then maybe his dad would be proud and would meet his eyes today. One look, one smile from him, was all he needed. And with Sam gone, he needed it badly.

"Right. Three mile run," John said. "I'm timing you. Meet me at the parking lot of the Wal-Mart across town, other side of Morris and Main, and we'll go from there."

888

"Hey Sam?" Jenny's voice called from the other side of the door. "You ready to hit the road?"

"I'll be out in a sec," he replied.

The night he'd spent in the tiny, single room at the motel had been one of misery and bliss. The girls had insisted on stopping for the night, being both tired and cramped from being too long in the car, and Sam had been silently grateful for the reprieve. He needed a bed and some alone time, and had rented the tiny room with the promise of getting both.

Until he found himself crying. At eighteen years old, Sam Winchester had never felt so completely lost and alone, and he was more scared now than he had ever been facing down poltergeists, werewolves, and other random creatures of evil. At least with monsters there were rules and patterns. And Sam knew how to play by the rules: he knew how to win if he was careful enough. But here? In the real world Sam was suddenly lost and he knew that no matter how hard he looked he wasn't going to find a ritual, spellbook, or an entry in his dad's journal that would guide him through this trying time. He wouldn't find any answers on how to get by. There were no rules. This was sink or swim.

And so he had cried. In fact, he'd spent most of the night crying, thinking about how his father had banished him from their lives forever. He thought about how this year he would spend his first Christmas alone, and though the Winchesters had never really done the Hallmark Christmas thing, being with Dean had always at least made it bearable. Would they let him stay in residence over the holidays, he wondered? But then he had reined those thoughts in. It was barely August. It wouldn't do to be thinking about Christmas this early on, when the school year hadn't even started yet. He'd have to take each step one at a time, leaping over each hurdle as it came. There was definitely no sense in skipping ahead to pains that would sting well enough when their time came.

He gathered up the last of his things, running his fingers through his damp, freshly washed hair to straighten out the tangles, and flicked off the light as he closed the door to his single room on his way out. Single room. That was his reality from now on.

He walked silently down the corridor, trying not to replay the events of the past few days in his head. He needed to forget about the fight with his dad, and to forget about the feelings of anguish churning in his gut. This was a new beginning, and sulking wasn't going to make starting over any easier. Still, he had somehow always imagined that Dean would be there to see him off – had foolishly pictured Dean teasing him about his roommate and giving him some sort of life pep-talk before leaving, amicably, so that his baby brother could move on to this next stage. Instead, he'd be staying alone in some youth hostel, working in some crap job to earn enough money for his keep while he waited for the school year to start so he could move into his room in residence. It was going to be a long month.

888

_**August 2, 2001**_

"So we're here to do what, exactly?" Dean asked as he rummaged through his duffel for a clean pair of socks. He picked up a bundled pair, sniffed it briefly, and then immediately tossed it back in the bag with a grimace. It was definitely time to do some laundry.

"For you? Simple salt and burn," John replied tersely. "While you're doing that I'm just going to do a little bit of recon."

Dean eyed his father suspiciously.

"Who's going to hold the flashlight while I dig?"

John huffed.

"What, are you afraid of the dark now?"

Dean withheld the sigh, knowing it would only serve to aggravate his already visibly moody father. He'd been broody and pissy since they'd left on this job, and Dean highly suspected that Sam's absence wasn't the half of it. _Kamikaze mission from Hell, here we come!_

"And whose bones am I burning again?"

John slammed the book he'd been reading closed.

"Goddamnit Dean!" he growled. "Maybe you should start writing things down, 'cos I'm gettin' real tired of having to repeat myself all the time."

Dean folded his arms across his chest and waited patiently for his father to calm down or continue snarking.

"Rebecca Whelms. Her name is Rebecca Whelms, and she's buried over at Pottersfield Cemetery, East side of town."

_Wow. I bet I could fry an egg on his forehead right now_, Dean thought.

"Got it," he said instead.

"Just get in, get it done, and get out," John said.

"Yes, sir." _Short and sweet. He likes terse replies_.

"And Dean," John went on, pausing momentarily to gather his thoughts. "This broad… well, you won't be burning bones, exactly. She's only been dead for a little over a year."

"And already she's stirring up crap? Impressive," Dean noted, trying to keep the mood light.

"She's more dangerous than you know," his father intoned. "We need to salt this bitch and put her to rest for good."

"Don't worry, Dad," Dean promised. "I'll get it done. I just wish you'd keep me in the loop on this one. I mean, what's this Rebecca chick been doin'?"

"Nothing you need to know," John replied evasively. "Suffice it to say I've cased this one thoroughly and I know what I'm doing. You just need to burn her corpse and then get the hell out of there. Are we clear?"

"Transparent," Dean said with a winsome smile. And it worked – it finally cracked him as John smiled weakly back at his son.

"Just be careful, son. Get in, get it done, and get out."

"You know me," Dean joked. "Caution is my middle name."

And then John laughed deep from his belly.

888

Dean decided, then and there, that the phrase 'simple salt and burn' was somehow cursed, and that the next time someone told him he needed to do a 'simple salt and burn' he was going to clock them. Digging in the dark was a bitch. As soon as he got deep enough in the ground the light from the flashlight above the hole became almost useless, and he ended up getting more dirt on himself than he got out. He'd forgotten his gloves, so his hands were sufficiently blistered to make him never want to see a shovel as long as he lived. And the cemetery, as it turns out, was directly off of a busy intersection, which meant there was a constant stream of traffic, even with the late hour, which made him more than a little anxious.

By the time he'd dropped the match over the salted and gasoline soaked corpse of Rebecca Whelms, Dean was ready for a shower and a six pack. Instead what he got was a flashlight, a gun, and a badge brandished in his face.

"Freeze!" an angry male voice called as Dean was bending over re-stuffing his duffel. "Hands where I can see them!"

_Shit, shit, and double shit._

Dean raised his hands slowly and turned around.

There were two police officers, one male, one female, both looking at him like they'd just apprehended Hannibal Lector. They had their guns drawn and aimed squarely at Dean's chest, and neither one seemed willing to take their eyes off of him. He suspected they feared he'd sprout horns and hooves and announce he was there to collect their souls.

"Step away from the grave," the male officer warned. He swallowed hard, eyeing Dean with fear, dread, and disgust. Then he cast a very quick glance into the flaming coffin and his eyes widened in horror.

"What the hell did you do?" he asked.

_See? This is why digging graves alone is a bad idea. No Dad and no Sam as a look-out makes Dean a grave-robbing, grave-burning sicko_.

"Ok," Dean said calmly. "Let's just calm down…"

"Get on the ground!" the male officer shouted suddenly, nervous that the creep before him had dared to speak.

"You heard him!" his female counterpart added. "On the ground now!"

"Chill, I'm not armed," Dean said, dropping to his knees. The minute they searched his bag they'd see how much of a lie that was. He had his trusted Bowie knife, his favourite sawed-off, and a fully-loaded silver glock in the bag. Plus a machete.

_How many different ways can you spell screwed_, Dean wondered?

888

Sam suspected that his feet may never feel normal again. The throbbing ache in them started at his heels and pulsated deep into the bones of his feet, nearly crippling him with pain. Being the newbie at Steyner's Pub in Palo Alto, Sam had been forced to take the crappiest shifts, which were more frequent than he would have liked. The pub was short-staffed because of the summer schedule, and Sam was left to pick up the slack as the newest busser. It was a thankless and relatively tipless job – because tips were generally left for the servers and what Sam got at the end of the night in tips was left-over from what had been tipped out to the kitchen staff and other bussers as well, after the wait staff had taken their cut.

But it was only temporary, he reminded himself. Soon the school-year would be starting and he could quit this crappy bussing job and slip into study-mode. He couldn't wait to immerse himself in books, thinking longingly of the library and its endless stacks, with rows upon rows of books for his reading pleasure. This new world was scary, but there were perks that he was just itching to reap the benefits of. He just needed to make it through this month.

The bunk bed creaked plaintively when he sat down upon it and Sam sighed heavily at the sight of his stoned roommate sleeping in the bed across the room from him. It was impossible to sleep comfortably at the youth hostel, considering that the single beds were barely big enough for large children, let alone his 6'3 frame. He had to curl up into the foetal position to fit onto the bed, as his feet stuck out several inches when he lay flat with his legs extended, and the end result was that his back was usually stiff and store, his legs cramped and in pain each morning as the sun rose.

The pub directly beneath his room certainly didn't help matters. He could never understand why the hostel had kept this room in circulation, considering that the boisterous and loud pub downstairs was exactly one floor below where he was currently trying to sleep. The constant booming of a steady bass beat pounded through the bed frame, rattling through his sore, aching bones. The sign on the wall from the management team clearly stated that quiet hours in the hostel started at 11:00 p.m. That was a joke. It was now 1:30 a.m. and the pub below was blaring music so loudly it could wake the dead.

One more month and you're out of here, he reminded himself. One more month and you'll be set up in your room in residence, where the nearest pub is across campus, and where quiet hour is strictly enforced. He hoped that his roommate would be nice and wouldn't be some kind of party animal. He hoped that they'd get along and that he'd be able to make friends. He hoped a lot of things.

He hoped that his dad and Dean were doing all right. It had been two days since he'd received Dean's last text, and he was beginning to worry a bit that maybe something had happened. But then, his reply had been so short, he thought that maybe Dean was giving him some space. He hoped that was all it was. The idea of his family being in danger while he was living completely ignorant and oblivious to it filled him with cold dread.

And he knew that sooner or later he was going to have to do something about that. Because he wouldn't be able to function throughout the school year with those kinds of worries on his mind. It would kill him.

888

Dean wondered if this was how Kamikaze pilots felt when they saw the enemy planes speeding into view at the moment of impact. He doubted it. Kamikaze pilots could see the end, knew when it would be coming, saw the impact moments before it happened. They selected their targets and chose the moment of death: they seized their destinies willingly, choosing the moment of the crash, knowing exactly how and when they would die.

But this? This was just fucking ridiculous.

He couldn't feel anything below his neck. The ropes on his wrists were cutting into his flesh, leaving rivulets of blood running freely down his bare arms, but the sting of his own raw tender skin didn't touch him. Whatever the bitch had given him had completely numbed his entire body and he couldn't move a muscle or feel much of anything beyond a strange tingling sensation in his extremities. His toes barely grazed the ground and he knew that, if he weren't numb, the pain in his shoulders would be unbearable as they bore the weight of his entire body. But this crazy chick knew her shit, that was for sure.

If he had thought that being arrested would be the worst thing to happen to him in this twenty-four hour span, Dean Winchester was sadly mistaken. His time at the police station had been surprisingly brief. They had unfortunately found his real I.D., and therefore knew his real name, but they had opted to interrogate him before hauling him off to be printed, photo'd and locked in cells pending arraignment. Several glasses of water later, armed with a paperclip and guided to a public washroom on the third floor, and Dean found himself blessedly free of the police station.

The loss of his favourite weapons and duffel bag was of course regrettable, but on the whole he was glad to at least be away from the police station. His Dad was probably having kittens by now wondering where he'd gone to, but that couldn't be helped. No way in Hell was he going to call him to bail him out. Dean was good enough at the Houdini act to get himself out of this scrape. Still, it sucked that the law was officially on his trail now. The weapons charges and grave desecration weren't the end of the world, but they would definitely be a big pain in his ass.

And Dean was definitely done with being fucked for one day. That is, until everything went suddenly very dark – a very bad sign, considering it was now 7:00 a.m. and the sun was firmly set in its place in the sky overhead.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself as he found himself suddenly blind. But then it seemed he had no voice either. Or he was deaf. Possibly both.

The world around him had simply switched off, leaving him in a strange, senseless state of being. He paused only long enough to wonder if he had been knocked out, but immediately abandoned that idea. He was all too aware of his body, of the feel of his boots on the ground as he stumbled blindly down the sidewalk. His hand reached for something, anything solid, so that he could steady himself, and when he felt a brick wall he hastily leaned against it, trying to get his bearings.

And then there were hands on him, small hands, tugging at his arms, and then a pinch in his neck, and the feel of the brick against his skin disappeared in tingling numbness. And then he did lose consciousness…

To find himself hanging limply, his wrists bound tightly above his head, his toes just skimming the ground beneath him. He was in some kind of cave, with candles lining every inch of the wall, casting an eerie orange glow over everything. And he was not alone.

"You're awake," a woman called pleasantly to him, sauntering toward him in the flickering light. She was dressed in strange, flowing black robes, her dark hair pulled up into a tight bun at the back of her head. He couldn't tell how old she was, though he would guess she was somewhere in her late 20s, because she had something of an ageless quality to her. But her dark eyes were steel, and they were looking murder at him.

"That was a stupid thing you did," she said, circling around him. "Burning my sister's body."

"What?" All three senses, sight, sound, and speech, had apparently returned.

Without warning she spun and slapped him, hard, in the face. He winced at the sting, noting idly that the numbness in his body did not extend to his cheek.

"My sister!" she ground out through gritted teeth. "Rebecca Whelms! You burned her body!"

"Oh, _that_," Dean muttered, stretching his jaw to ease the pain in his face. "Yeah, well… You know how it is, when you've got a job to do…"

"You hunters are all alike, you know that?" she hissed. "You're too damned self-righteous for your own good."

Dean would have liked to have made some kind of clever retort about how her sister had been wreaking havoc on innocent people, and that burning her corpse, while saving said innocent people, certainly hadn't made her any more dead, but the truth was he had no idea what Rebecca Whelms's spirit had been doing. The need-to-know basis of this hunt had kept him completely in the dark.

"Well you've just dug yourself one hell of a hole," the woman said nastily, stepping in front of him and watching him with her arms folded across her chest. "Because now that her body's gone, I'm going to have to find a new host for her."

"A new what for her what?" _Oh this couldn't be good_. "What the hell are you talking about?"

She smirked.

"Daddy Winchester didn't tell you, did he?"

When Dean didn't reply, her smirk grew into a full-on grin.

"Oh this is rich. He _didn't_ tell you. You're just his little errand boy… That's perfect. It's going to make this that much sweeter."

Dean tried to look bored.

"My sister and I have been around for quite a long time," the woman said, by way of explanation. "Though I'm pretty sure your daddy didn't know about me – seeing as I'm still here. He's got a thing against witches, apparently."

_Witches! God, Dean hated witches._

"Who doesn't?" Dean said pointedly.

"Touché. Anyway, your daddy showed up here about a year ago and decided that it was time to take out my sister. He cut her head off. Did he tell you that?"

He most definitely had not. Dean tried to remember if Rebecca's corpse had appeared decapitated at all, but the truth was he hadn't been able to tell in the dark. He'd just climbed out of the hole and torched her as soon as he could – because that's what his father had told him to do. Get in, get it done, get gone.

"I've been working pretty tirelessly to bring her back," the woman went on. "I had pretty much everything I needed – except for something of your Dad's of course, because a spell like this requires a part of the person that killed her – and then he sends his boy wonder along to burn her body. I can't begin to tell you how angry that made me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dean said blandly.

"Don't be," she said pleasantly. "Because now I get to show you instead."

**Chapter End Notes**: For those of you who have stayed in youth hostels and enjoyed it, I apologize for the apparent dig. The one I stayed at this past November sucked loud hairy ass -- was like a prison for people who paid to be incarcerated. And the dance club/pub downstairs? 100% true. I was attending the cheapest conference ever and was put up in the hostel (instead of a motel -- because the budget doesn't include 4-star accommodations for interns), and the damned dance club pounding music kept me and my 3 cell mates up all hours. And given that we had to get up at 6 ever morning, I can honestly say I was none too pleased. On a lighter note, there was a woman travelling with us who was easily Jared Padalecki's height, and the conference people had to set her up with her own private room with a double bed because of how huge she was compared to the tiny bunkbeds. I laughed until I almost peed when she illustrated for me how small the bed was by lying on it so I could see her legs hanging off the end.

Serious Dean whumpage in the next couple of chapters.


	4. The Worst Day Ever

Something was wrong. When Dean failed to return from the salt and burn, John had been irritated. He thought he had made his instructions pretty clear that Dean was to get the job done and get back ASAP. He had impressed upon him, he thought, the seriousness of the situation. And the kid had a damned cell phone – if he had plans to go somewhere else for the night he could easily spare a few seconds to give his old man a heads up so he wouldn't worry. But when the minutes turned into hours John knew that something was wrong. And when his calls to his eldest son went straight to voicemail, he definitely knew something was wrong.

It wasn't like Dean to disappear without calling. The kid liked to party, no doubt about it, but when it came to the hunt he was as professional as it got. More than that, though, he'd been given an order, and Dean didn't disobey his father. He just wasn't wired that way. If Dean was AWOL, it meant something had happened.

The abandoned Impala at the Red Rose Diner across from the cemetery was John's first ominous clue. Rebecca Whelms's corpse was torched to perfection, but there was no sign of Dean. There was no sign of him anywhere.

John tried to breathe through the rising panic. He'd sent his son out on what he hoped was the simpler part of this job. He probably should have told him the whole story, but he was worried that Dean would insist on going with him while he did his recon. The kid would freak out if he knew the kind of danger they were really facing, and he didn't want to put Dean in the middle of it. These witches were seriously old school, and if they knew about Dean there was no telling what they would do. So he had kept him in the dark in the hopes of keeping him out of it, of keeping him safe. But now Dean was missing and the thought of him being in the clutches of Mary Whelms and her soon-to-be-necromanced sister was enough to make the blood in his veins run cold with fear. He needed to find Dean now.

He tried the local hospitals first, but no one fitting Dean's description had been brought in. He thought about calling the police, but decided that that was probably a bad idea. If Dean had been arrested their safest bet would be to find some way to sneak him out of town when he made bail. The less the cops knew about the Winchesters the better. So John didn't call the police.

Instead he made a quick search of the Impala and found something that stopped his heart. There, underneath the driver's seat, was a soft brown cloth bag that was tied at the top with a piece of string. A hex bag. His hands began to tremble as he lifted the bag from the car. The witches had Dean. Or they had hurt Dean. He didn't want to think about what kind of hex they had put on his son, or what they were doing to him now. But he had to believe that Dean was alive. Whatever their plans, they would want to keep Dean alive. Mary Whelms would want to exact her revenge, and she'd want John to be there to witness it. He had no doubt. No, wherever he was, and whatever was being done to him, Dean was alive. _He had to be_.

888

Some of the feeling was starting to return to his useless limbs, beginning with a throbbing pain in his wrists and a dull ache in his shoulders. The muscles still refused to work, though, and when he tried to struggle against his bonds he did little more than twitch ineffectually. His legs hung like dead stumps, useless and disobedient to his commands. The witch watched him with a vicious grin on her face.

"It's scary isn't it?" she asked coyly. "Losing control of your body? You tell your leg to move and it doesn't. You scream at your arms to wriggle free, but they don't. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Dean glared at her.

"So what's your big plan, bitch?" he asked, huffing in irritation. "You going to taunt me to death or what?"

"Slow down there, cowboy," she cautioned. "You might want to think twice before giving me the green light. Once I start with you there's no going back. And believe me when I say you'll die screaming."

"Huh."

"But first things' first." She reached into a small black pouch that hung from her waist and retrieved what looked like a large, round, silver ring with an elaborately large insignia on it. She crossed the room, directly in front of Dean, and retrieved a large black candle. Holding it in front of her so that he could see her every move, she held the ring directly into the flame, her eyes glinting madly as orange embers danced in the black pools of her raptor gaze.

"Fuck," Dean muttered, knowing where this was heading.

She hissed in pain when the ring became scorching hot all over, laying the candle on the floor near Dean's feet and then jabbing the searing hot metal into the small of his bare back without warning.

"Gyaaaoow motherfucker!" Dean exclaimed, overwhelmed and startled by the burning metal boring into his flesh. He could definitely feel the pain of that, though his limbs failed to protest with him against it.

She held it there, her face close to his, smiling warmly as he grimaced and gritted his teeth.

"I hate your father," she said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I almost wish it was him here instead of you, you know."

Then she placed the ring back in the pouch at her waist.

"My sister and I travelled the globe together," she explained. "We did everything together. For two hundred years we cut a swath through every city and every town… And then your daddy had to come along and ruin everything."

Dean couldn't bring himself to care. The feeling was coming back to his body and he hoped that meant that he'd be regaining control of his muscles. They were already beginning to twitch in response to his attempted movements. Soon, he hoped, he'd be able to move again, and then he'd shut this stupid bitch up with a swift kick in the face.

"I was supposed to bring her back," she said, her expression darkening once again. "I was _going_ to bring her back. But now you've shot that plan all to hell."

"You said that already," Dean rasped. "Are you like one of those dolls that only has so many programmed catch-phrases, so that when they all get used up you go back to the beginning again?"

He saw the next slap coming and laughed in spite of the renewed sting to his cheek.

"But I've got a better plan," she hissed. "Sort of like poetic justice. Two birds with one stone type deal. Your daddy kills my sister: I kill you. You destroy my sister's body so she can't return to it? I give her yours."

"I think your sister might want a different model," Dean said blandly, trying not to look or sound as terrified as he suddenly felt. Being killed was one thing. Being used as a vessel for a witch – and a chick no less – was quite another.

"You'd be amazed at what spells we can cook up," she assured him. "I just need to empty your meatsuit out – hollow out a nice hole for her to fit into – and then she can make it her new home. Don't worry, she'll redecorate once the old tenant moves out."

_Oh God that couldn't be good._

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," Dean said confidently. "Either way, my dad's gonna find you and kill you, just like he killed your skeazy sister."

She shrugged.

"Maybe," she said. "But you'll be dead first, and my sister will be there in your place. It's a fair trade. And when she's back, she can bring me back. We're kind of like cockroaches that way."

"You know, I was just going to say that," Dean agreed. "Just like cockroaches."

He renewed his squirming efforts when he saw that she was on the move again. She crossed to a darker part of the cave, beyond the ring of candles, and rifled through a pile of things Dean couldn't quite make out. His arms still had no movement in them, either from the effects of the drug or from the strain of his body weight pulling on them. He wasn't sure. His legs moved slightly when he tried to jerk them about – but not nearly enough to mount anything like a defence against whatever was coming.

He most definitely did not like the sound of being hollowed out. His mind recalled Alan Rickman from Costner's terrible "Robin Hood" movie, screaming about using a spoon as a torture device because it would hurt more. He hoped emphatically that he wouldn't be carved out like some kind of human pumpkin. Or, at the very least, he hoped he would be dead when the carving started, though he highly doubted it.

When the witch returned Dean saw that she was carrying a large stone goblet. There were carvings on the side, with images of what looked like demonic goats and naked women in various stages of disembowelment. He was willing to lay down money that the goblet wasn't full to the brim with beer, hearty grog, or mead.

"Open your mouth" she ordered, holding the cup up to his face.

Dean shot her a look that clearly said, 'yeah right' without actually opening his mouth to speak.

"Suit yourself," she said, pinching his nostrils with her left hand.

Dean tried to pull his head away but there was only so much room to wiggle, and she was standing too close for him to wrench his face free of her grip. He knew this was a battle that he was not going to win, but he fought it as long as he could before he was finally forced to gasp a breath. As soon as his lips parted to take a breath she was ready, yanking his head back by a fist full of his hair and dumping the sludgy contents of the goblet into his mouth.

He sputtered and choked, his lungs not yet full of enough air, but again the witch was ready. She rammed his jaw shut and held his mouth closed as he gagged and choked on the vile substance as it flooded its way down his throat.

"If you throw it up it'll still end up in the same place," she growled in his ear. "Just think Jeff Goldblum with his fly regurgitation trick."

She looked into his wide green eyes and almost felt a flicker of pity at the panic and revulsion reflected in those intense, soulful depths. He blinked past the tears pooling in his eyes and swallowed, coughing and choking as the thick liquid forced its way down. He continued to cough long after she had released his mouth.

She crossed to the other side of the cave and listened to the sounds of him choking for air. The flicker of pity was turning into the tiniest twinge of guilt, which made her angry. She wanted to see John Winchester suffer, and killing his boy was the perfect way to do it. God knew she had done far worse to hundreds, if not thousands, more people than this one kid. But she had made the mistake of looking into his eyes. The deep sadness reflected there had somehow cut straight into her.

"I'm sorry for you," she found herself saying. "You didn't know what you were stepping into when you trundled into this one. Your daddy never told you. Figures. I mean, your dad's a pompous ass…"

"You shut the hell up about my dad," Dean growled huskily. "Your sister deserved what she got and when your bill comes due, trust me, you'll get what's comin' to you too."

She chuckled, her momentary lapse into insanity (or rather, sympathy) passed.

"You've got a pair," she said ruefully. "I'll grant you that."

She eyed him quizzically and then returned to his side, her eyes shining wickedly once again.

"In fact," she said, purring in his ear.

She ran a hand along his bare chest, trailing it down from his collar bone to his belly button, stopping at the button of his jeans.

"Get your freakin' hands off of me," he whispered, his voice dangerously low.

"What?" she said innocently, pouting slightly. "You don't want to have one last romp in the sack before you die?"

"With you? I'll pass."

She shrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said nonchalantly. "Just remember, I did offer. You're one handsome bastard, that's for damned sure. I mean, your daddy's quite the looker. With that tall, dark and handsome vibe going for him. If I weren't so looking forward to wearing his intestines like a necktie, I'd probably be trying to jump his bones."

"Oh God," Dean muttered. "Kill me now."

"But you?" she went on. "Hot damn! I haven't seen such a fine piece of ass in over a century. I mean, _yowsah!_"

"Did you just say 'yowsah'?" Dean asked incredulously.

"What?" she replied defensively. "Should I have said yabba-dabba doo?"

Dean snorted a laugh.

"A couple centuries' old witch with a major pop culture vocab… Will the wonders never cease?"

She chuckled mildly and then eyed him again. He was a strange kid.

"So here's the deal, Dean," she said simply. "Your name is Dean, right?"

He nodded.

"It's been a while since I summoned one of these things, but I think you've still got a couple days left. When you die it's gonna be painful and slow. Well, more like gut-wrenchingly agonizingly painfully slow… You'll probably want to put a bullet through your brain pan to stop it. And I promise I won't think any less of you as a man if you do."

She smirked.

"Go to hell," he spat.

"The mole will take probably another twenty minutes to germinate, so we're just gonna sit tight for a little bit. Once that happens I'm gonna take off, ok? Your daddy can find you and cut you down – and then he can try to hunt me down. I don't really care what he does. But he's gonna watch you die, and that makes me all kinds of happy. And then my sister will take your place and tear him to shreds."

Dean didn't want to ask, but he had to.

"Mole?"

"Yeah," she said wistfully, her eyes casting back to some distant memory. "It's gonna grow right in here," she said, patting Dean on his bare belly. "And it's going to dig its way through you and gobble you up, tiny bite after tiny bite, until you're all emptied out."

He could feel the colour draining from his face as he contemplated the painful fate he'd been abandoned to. He didn't think he could bear to be slowly eaten from the inside. The bullet to the head proposition was beginning to sound sweet.

"There are other ways this could have gone down," she admitted thoughtfully. "But this one was the most painful one I could think of. And since I owe your daddy a world of hurt, I thought this was definitely the most fitting."

If his muscles hadn't been paralyzed by whatever drug she'd given him, Dean would have been trembling from head to toe. What this witch had described went beyond any and every kind of death he had ever imagined, and he had imagined a lot. He knew that there were a million and one terrible ways to die, and had contemplated dying each and every single one of those ways. Being a hunter, he had to. Facing down what could be his death by acknowledging the possibility somehow gave him power over it. It was like the acknowledgment, however brief, gave him some kind of control over it. It was an illusion, but it worked for him.

But this was different. This was a horror he couldn't imagine. It was an internal, body-munching parasite that apparently was going to grow inside of him and eat him from the inside. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine what that would feel like, and quite frankly, he didn't want to imagine it.

"Is there any way to stop it?" Dean heard himself asking. He wanted to kick himself for asking, because it revealed his fear and his weakness. He might as well have begged her to save him.

She pouted and smiled in mock sadness.

"Aww," she said. "Puppy's afraid to die. That's so cute."

"I'm not afraid of dyin'," Dean insisted. But damn if his voice didn't sound like a frightened whisper when he tried to speak.

"Of course you're not," she cooed. "Death is what a hunter lives and breathes, isn't it? You're not afraid of dying. You're afraid of losing control, of being powerless. Like those useless limbs of yours right now betraying you by refusing to obey you, refusing to help you save yourself from a bad, bad girl like me."

He glared at her, willing her to fall into a giant toilet to be flushed to her smelly, shit-soaked death.

"I honestly don't know," she admitted. "Probably not. But with magic, you never know, right? For just about every spell there's a counter-spell. Maybe you'll get lucky and find a way out of this one. But I sincerely doubt it."

"Well you'd sure as hell better hope so," a gravelly voice intoned from somewhere near the entrance of the cave. "Because I'll make you rue every day of the last two hundred years if you've hurt my boy."

Dean smiled in sudden relief. Dad was here. Everything was going to be ok.

888

The relief washing over him was fleeting, to be replaced almost immediately by sheer, blind panic. His dad was here and was now in grave danger. The witch had somehow managed to completely incapacitate Dean by blinding, deafening and silencing him without even touching him – and he could only imagine what kind of tricks she would have in store for his dad. True, she had said she wanted John to see Dean die, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be strung up to some medieval torture device to watch the show. Now, more than wanting to be rescued, Dean just wanted his father to get out, to get to safety.

"Dad!" he shouted in warning, hoping to convey with the single word how badly he wanted his father to escape.

"It's all right, son," John assured him. "I've gotcha."

"John!" Mary Whelms called out warmly, her arms expanding around the room in a welcoming gesture. "So glad you could make it. Though, I honestly expected you to be here sooner. If you had, you might have been able to save your son."

John took several angry, though half-tentative steps into the cave, his tall figure becoming increasingly illuminated by the candle light as he stepped into it.

"Your business is with me," he said, his dark eyes flicking toward his son briefly before settling on the dark-robed witch before him. "Let Dean go."

Mary laughed heartily.

"The kid's all yours," she said, smiling wickedly. "I'm done with him. Right now, my business _is_ with you."

John raised his right hand, brandishing a strange-looking gun that both Dean and Mary recognized as a tranquilizer gun, raising it to take aim at the witch. But she was too fast. Lowering her gaze to the ground, her arms spread at her sides, she began chanting in a strange and ancient-sounding tongue, causing the earth to quake as the gun flew out of John's hands, landing with a loud clatter onto the cold floor of the cave.

"Ah-ah-ah," she warned, casting her gaze upward. "I wanted to play for a while before we get to the main show."

With a smile of triumph, she reached into the black pouch at her waist and retrieved what looked like a tiny ball of sand, which she promptly crushed in one palm, siphoning it out of her closed fist in a sprinkle to the ground. Another muttered curse in the strange language, and John was suddenly clouded in a whirling haze of dark smoke. Then there was a strange crack and the smoke mysteriously dissipated.

The malevolent smirk never left John's dark eyes. He remained where he stood, unharmed, unscathed, and completely unaffected by whatever spell she had just cast on him.

"You think you're the only one who knows about magic?" he asked mildly, giving his son a reassuring grin as he took several more steps toward the witch.

She huffed in irritation.

"So you've got some protective charms on you, huh, Johnny?" she asked. "That's disappointing, I've got to say. But there are other ways to keep you in line."

Dean didn't know where the knife came from, but suddenly she was stalking toward him, her intention of using him to keep John 'in line' abundantly clear. Without even thinking Dean tested the use of his legs once again, catching the startled witch with an angry kick to the ribs that sent her careening backwards in a graceless sprawl to the ground. John was upon her in an instant, jabbing her in the neck with a dart from his gun. Within moments she was stilled.

"Dean!" John said in a rush, flying to his son's side to untie him. "How're you doin' kiddo?"

"Uh, not so good," Dean admitted as he watched his father reach for the knife that was tucked into his boot. "Dad, I think we've got a bit of a problem."

John paused.

"What kind of problem?" His eyes were wide with worry, and it only confirmed Dean's suspicion that whatever the witch had done to him, it must be spectacularly horrible, because his father wasn't even trying to be gruff or stern. The man looked terrified, though he was obviously trying to hide it, which meant he had some idea of what this witch was capable of.

"She made me drink some kind of magic sludge," Dean explained, shifting in his binds as his father's eyes grew even wider. "Said it was some kind of mole… That she was going to hollow me out…?"

Dean watched as his father's face went slack in sheer horror.

"Oh God!" he whispered, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the ropes holding Dean. "_Oh God!_ How long ago?"

"What?"

"How long ago did you drink the potion?" His voice was frantic.

"I don't know… Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?"

John nodded, somehow taking reassurance from that.

"Ok," he said. "Then there might still be time."

And without warning, his calloused fingers were on Dean's face, forcing his mouth open.

"Dad – what're y—" Dean began, but gagged as his father's fingers forced their way to the back of his mouth, shoving into his throat and instantly setting off his gag reflex. The fingers were barely removed before Dean began to heave, vomiting all over his own bare chest.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, spitting out the last remnants of sick and glaring at his father incredulously. "Are you gonna freakin' untie me or have another round of forced bulimia?"

"Sorry," his father replied absently, staring at the pile of sick with a frown as his hands fumbled to cut at Dean's bonds.

At last the ropes were severed and Dean fell to the ground in a heap, just barely missing the vomit as he landed.

"You wanna tell me what that was for?" Dean asked angrily, wiping the bile off of his chest with a grimace.

"I was hoping maybe you'd throw it up," John explained, his voice hardening.

"I get that," Dean said testily. "Just wondering why you thought I couldn't do it myself. Or why you couldn't untie me first. Man this is freakin' gross!"

John shuffled nervously on the spot.

"It didn't come up, did it?" he asked hesitantly.

Dean kept his gaze averted to the ground. He could feel the beginnings of something stirring inside him, like a tiny snake wiggling around in his stomach.

"No," he admitted quietly. "It's still in here. And it's… alive."

888

Everything was a flurry of motion. The witch had been appropriately dispatched – John had insisted that Dean go to the truck to call Bobby for help while he took care of Mary Whelms. The smoke emanating from the mouth of the cave, carrying with it the stench of burning flesh, let Dean know that the witch was ding-dong-dead and burning to a crisp by the time his father returned.

"Good news!" Dean called to his father as he stalked his way toward the truck, his face set in grim determination. "Bobby says he's got something that should probably, hopefully work."

"Probably hopefully?"

"His words."

John huffed.

"All right, well haul ass," John ordered, swinging to the driver's side and launching himself into the seat. "We can be there probably in about three hours."

"Will that be enough time?" Dean asked, his eyebrows raised so high they might have touched his hairline.

"Not if you don't get your ass in this truck!" John barked. "Move, Dean!"

Dean didn't need telling twice. Slow and protesting muscles notwithstanding, he moved as quickly as he could.

It was a silent ride to South Dakota. They had made the briefest of stops at the motel room to pick up the last of their belongings, allowing Dean just enough time to wipe himself clean with a soapy face cloth and change into some clean clothes. And then they were off like two men on a mission, which Dean supposed they were.

He could feel the magic mole squirming around inside him, but as of yet it didn't seem to have started chomping. But the squirming, squiggling was distracting. He could feel it as it explored through his abdomen, wriggling around like a slithering worm within him. One moment it would be twisting and turning in his belly, the next it was tickling its way up near his lungs, making him cough. He squirmed in his seat as it stole its way somewhere in his lower back, as though testing out his kidneys. He wondered if it was feasting its supernatural eyes on the all-you-can-eat buffet of his internal organs, deciding which part of him to chomp onto first.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yeah, son," John said, keeping his eyes on the road as the sun began to fade on the horizon.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

John spared him a quizzical look before returning his angry gaze to the road.

"There somethin' wrong with yours?" he asked.

"It's still at the police station with most of the rest of my stuff," Dean admitted.

"The police station?"

Dean winced.

"Yeah, I kind of got pinched when I got done burning the bones," he confessed. "It's that damned cemetery – it's too out in the open!"

"So you've been charged?" John said angrily.

"Technically I was in the middle of being interrogated," Dean explained. "But I managed to get away."

"Damnit!" John hissed. "This is just great. Anything else?" His voice was very testy now.

Dean planted on his most winsome smile.

"Other than being arrested and shanghaied by a witch and then invaded by a supernatural monster that's going to eat me from the inside, all in one day? Nope. That's everything."

His father's expression immediately softened.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said mildly. "We're going to fix this, son. I promise."

"Thanks Dad," Dean said, hoping he believed it. "But just in case… I mean, in case we can't stop it… I just thought maybe I should call Sam?"

"Dean, you are not gonna die," John said threateningly. "And if you think you're using my phone to say your goodbyes, then forget it!"

Dean slumped in his seat.

"But… what if I don't get a chance to say goodbye to him, Dad?"

John stared at him a long moment, torn between yelling at him in frustration and anger and tugging him into a bear hug in desperation. He settled for something between a glare and a grimace, his eyes glistening in betrayal.

"Ok," he heard himself saying huskily. "Call your brother. But you ain't dyin', son. That's an order."

"Yessir," Dean said with a sad grin.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Sam didn't answer. He was using Dad's phone after all. The poor kid probably saw the number and pissed himself in fear when it showed up on the call display. That or his phone might have been turned off. Dean shouldn't have expected him to answer. But with the possibility of his own impending death, he had really hoped to talk to the sasquatch one last time. If it was the last time. And maybe it wasn't.

He tossed the phone onto the seat with a small sigh.

"No answer," he said without emotion, staring out the window with eyes that felt dead.

"He probably thinks it's me calling him," John said soothingly. "If you'd called him from your phone he'd probably have answered."

Dean looked at his father hopefully.

"Yeah, maybe," he said, not really believing it.

And it was then that he felt the first real twinge of pain. A mild pinch in his lower abdomen, somewhere on the right side near his hip bone, and then it suddenly escalated, stabbing mercilessly. He gasped in surprised agony, feeling burning, living pain exploding within him.

"Dean?" his dad called, his voice ringing with alarm. "Dean!"

Dean gritted his teeth against the pain, breathing deeply through his nose.

"I think the mole just strapped on his bib and started chomping," he ground out through his teeth.

"Hang on, son," John said. "Not long 'til we get to Bobby's. We've got some time. Just hang in there, ok?"

Dean nodded, trying not to cry out as the pain hitched up several notches, taking his breath away. It was the most horrible, disgusting, and painful sensation he had ever been forced to endure. The mole would probe, almost tentatively, tickling or tapping before it leeched onto whatever part of him it was biting, and then the area would throb with pain before the tearing began, before the meat of him was torn away to be devoured. On and on it went, the gentle probe, the leeching, throbbing, and then the tearing agony.

He was fairly certain that the thing was eating his appendix, and though he rationally knew his body didn't need this particularly useless organ, he highly doubted that it was healthy to have it eaten out of him like this. Would his body go into shock, he wondered?

He slid down the seat as a moan escaped him, his knees curled up against the dashboard as he attempted to curl into himself against the pain. He was covered in a sheen of sweat and his hands were trembling, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"Dad, what do we do if we can't stop it before it eats something I need?" he asked as the panicked thought struck him. "Like what do we do if it starts eating my heart next or somethin', huh?"

"It won't," his father insisted.

"How do you know?"

"Because it'll want to keep you alive as long as possible," he explained, his voice thick with suppressed emotion, trying to force calm that Dean knew his father simply did not possess at the moment. "It'll probably go for one of your kidneys next. Or your gall bladder."

Dean shuddered violently.

"God I hope Bobby's spell works," he said emphatically, gasping as a new wave of pain stabbed into him.

"It will," John assured him. "Bobby's got more books on supernatural crap than anyone I know. If he said he's found something that'll work, then it'll work."

"He said probably hopefully," Dean reminded him.

"It'll work!"

"Hey Dad?"

"Yeah, son." His eyes were watching him as he writhed in the seat.

"I don't wanna die like this."

"You won't," John promised. "You won't."

* * *

**Note:** Next chapter has more Dean torture and angst -- all the good stuff we twisted Supernatural fans love. Thanks for reading and reviewing!!


	5. Worms and Hodge Podge

**Chapter Notes:** And here's some more on the mole attack, plus some Sammy at Stanford and a Wee!chester flashback. Forgive me, but I am a sucker for Wee!chester stuff.

* * *

By the time they pulled into Bobby's salvage yard, the mole had taken a break to rest up before going in for its second course. Dean tried easing himself out of his father's truck on trembling limbs but found that his legs simply wouldn't hold his weight. He was trembling from head to foot, from shock, or fear, or residual pain, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't command the shaking to cease. But John was there in an instant, at his side as a kind of human crutch, which Dean gratefully leaned on. If this was going to be the end, at least his dad would be here.

Bobby joined them outside, having heard the truck as it pulled up the drive, and was there as a second crutch to help lead Dean into the dusty, book-strewn house.

"You look like hell, kid," the older hunter said, his kind eyes wide with mingled fear and pity as the Winchesters made their way inside.

They eased Dean onto an ancient, tatty-looking couch in Bobby's living room.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, hoping to help ease his young guest's suffering.

"A cure would be nice," Dean replied, blinking one eye open to look up at his old friend, who was looming over him in concern.

"Right!" he said, jumping to action.

Dean listened to the sounds of his father and Bobby as they shuffled their way to and fro in preparation for whatever spell was supposed to save him from the mystical mole. He hoped it would be ready soon because the thing had started to move again. He winced as it sluiced its way through the ruins of whatever it had most recently eaten, sliding around somewhere toward his back.

Then he felt it, the tentative tap, tap, tapping and then the leeching, sucking, throbbing. He braced himself for the tearing, but nothing could prepare him for it. A scream tore from him as a piece of something in his lower back was torn away – probably part of his kidney, as his father had suspected. Dean writhed in agony, gasping for breath against the inward assault to his body. He mashed his face into the cushions of the couch and groaned into them, hoping to stifle the sounds of his pain. It just hurt so bad.

His father's hand was on his head, stroking his hair in comfort, meaningless words mumbling something reassuring that he couldn't quite make out.

"Dad please," Dean whispered desperately. "Make it stop. It's killin' me, make it stop!"

"Where does it hurt, son?"

"Here," Dean said, twisting slightly and pointing with a violently trembling hand toward his back.

John carefully lifted the back of his son's T-shirt to survey the area in question, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the splotches of purple discoloration already showing through the skin where the mole's destructive biting had left a trail of broken blood vessels and bruises. It was eating one of Dean's kidneys.

"Think it grew…" Dean panted. "Got bigger…"

"It's ok, Dean," John assured him. "Bobby's got just about everything together that we need. We're just waiting on Jim, and he should be here any minute."

"Pastor Jim?" Dean asked, clenching his teeth in an attempt to ride the wave of pain.

"Yeah, Pastor Jim. He's on his way with some kind of holy grail for you to drink from. Gotta do this one to the letter – get you all fixed up."

Dean smiled wearily.

"You sure he's not comin' 'cos I'm dyin'? Cos that would really suck."

"You're not dying, Dean," John admonished. "We've already been through this."

"Yessir," Dean replied immediately, the ghost of a grin on his pale face. The smile vanished with the next onslaught of tearing pain. "Sweet Mexican mother-fucker!"

"Kid's got a mouth on him to match his daddy's," Bobby observed slyly from his position near the door. "You kiss your lady friends with that mouth, Dean?"

"They like it…" the young hunter panted, "when I… talk dirty."

And then Dean passed out.

888

The Cecil H. Green Library was perhaps the most beautiful library Sam Winchester had ever seen. Its simple yet ornate architectural structure, with its cathedral-like, cut-away arches lining the Bing Wing, its almost creamy, stone walls, and rusted red shingling, gave it the look of a terra-cotta'ed church or parliament building. It was early yet to be getting started on his school work, but Sam had registered already and was itching to put his student card to use, especially since he had a month to go before the term actually started and he was bored stiff.

The books he was looking for were easy enough to find. He made his way along the stacks, snatching items here and there, sniffing the old book smell with an almost religious zeal and smiling to himself that Dean wasn't around to make fun of him for it. He was going to get a head start with his related readings. Most of his courses had the class syllabi online, and he had every intention of being prepared, better than prepared, when the term started.

After forty-five minutes of rummaging, he had more than enough books to get started with, and made his way to the long, pale, wooden circulation desk. He was so caught up in his excitement that he didn't even notice the familiar face smiling at him from behind the counter.

"Sam? Sam Winchester?"

Sam paused, looking up into the blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl's smiling face.

"Jenny!" he exclaimed, startled but most pleasantly surprised. "God… uh, Jenny Johnson, right?"

She smiled warmly.

"A little over a week and you've almost forgotten me?" she teased.

"No, no," he assured her. "I just didn't expect to be seeing you. Though I suppose, that was kind of stupid. You do go here, after all."

She laughed.

"I sure do. So how are you making out in Palo Alto? Getting settled in and everything? Found a place to stay while you're on the lam from the Von Trapps?"

Sam smiled sheepishly, his cheeks blushing.

"Not on the lam," he explained. "Just… what's the word? Going solo? Anyway, I'm good. Just staying over at the youth hostel until I can move into my room in res. You?"

"Workin'," she said simply. "I came back a month early 'cos I was able to land this kick-ass job here at the library."

"Yeah, I remember you saying," Sam supplied. "And Maureen and Darla made it to L.A. all right?"

"Snug as bugs," she said.

"That's great…" His voice trailed off awkwardly. Sam was never very good at the small-talk thing. That was always Dean's department. He could shoot the shit with just about anyone, about anything.

"So…" she puffed her cheeks, having noticed that the conversation had died down to that awkward silence. "You should meet me for coffee later, like after my shift is done."

Sam straightened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, her smile returning. "You're new to the area, and should probably get the guided tour – I can help you there. We can go for coffee, catch up on our lives, because I'm sure a lot has happened in the past week, and then I can show you around campus."

He hated himself for blushing, as he was doing now, his cheeks pinkening and then turning red, right up to his ears. Jenny Johnson was really pretty, and the butterflies in his stomach were dancing the Macarena at the very prospect of going on a guided campus tour with her. But he didn't dare let himself dream that she could actually be interested in him. She was a year older, after all.

"I get off at seven," she said. "You wanna meet me here and we can go from there?"

"Yeah," he said, a silly grin plastered on his face, dimpling his cheeks. God, if Dean were here he'd be ribbing him so bad right now.

"All right then. I'll see you at seven."

"Seven," Sam repeated, stumbling away without any of his books. "Here at seven o'clock."

He ushered himself out of the library as quickly as possible, his ears buzzing with excitement. It didn't matter that he had completely flaked out in the presence of a pretty girl: the books could wait another day, or two, or seven. The fact was he was here an entire month early and had plenty of time to get ahead of the game. In the meantime, he had just made a friend – a very pretty friend – and he wasn't going to waste this opportunity. Already he felt as though his new life was beginning.

He was so excited he didn't even notice the buzzing of his vibrating cell phone in his bookbag.

888

_January 1, 1990_

They should have been asleep hours ago, but the raucous from the kitchen beyond their tiny bedroom was enough to raise zombies from their graves, and certainly was no inducement for the wired ten year-old and his inquisitive little brother to fall asleep. They listened to the laughter of the men in the room beyond as they bantered playfully around the table, tossing out insults and dirty jokes in a haze of cigar smoke and a swirl of beer and whisky. Dean listened intently, wishing he could join them, knowing that Dad and Jim and Bobby and a few other of their friends were ringing in the New Year with an unheard of and unprecedented game of poker – a rarity for John Winchester, who didn't allow himself to have fun. _Ever_. And the sound of his dad's laughter booming from the living room, an unexpected but entirely blessed occurrence, filled him with a deep joy. His watch told him it was 2:00 a.m., but he was wide awake. And apparently, so was Sam.

"Hey Dean?" the six year-old called from the bunk below. "Why'd you s'pose Daddy never laughs unless he's playin' poker?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean admitted, trying to sound tired so that his brother would go to sleep. "Maybe he's got that sad Smurf disease."

Sam sat bolt upright in his bed.

"The one where they had to kick each other to make the disease go away? Where they'd get the spot on their nose?"

Dean shrugged and chuckled to himself.

"Yeah, that one."

"But I didn't see a spot on his nose, Dean," the little boy admitted with a frown. "Should I go and kick him to make it go away?"

"NO," Dean said hurriedly, still laughing. "Then you'd catch it and _you_ would be sad all the time."

Sam considered it a moment.

"Nah," he said at last, confident. "I wouldn't be sad, Dean. I've got you."

Dean felt that flutter of warmth in his stomach, enjoying as the heat spread through his chest. He smiled up at the ceiling, wishing that things could feel like this all the time.

John Winchester had broken his leg, badly, only two weeks before Christmas and had taken a reluctant break from hunting for the time being. The tiny furnished apartment they now found themselves the proud residents of served as a proper homestead for them for this holiday season, and for the first time that Dean could remember, the Winchesters had spent an entire Christmas break together. At first John had been cranky and stir-crazy, pacing throughout the house like a caged animal intent on escape. The constant mutterings about _fucking ca_s_ts_ and being held up like a _fucking invalid_ had not gone unnoticed by either of his children. But things had miraculously turned around with the clever meddling of one Pastor Jim Murphy.

As it turns out, John Winchester had somehow managed to win for himself several lifelong friends – friends who would die for him, and in whose trust he could place the lives of his two young sons – who took it upon themselves to make sure that the gruff, young, single father avoided going into complete meltdown when times got rough. And with John cooped up with a broken leg, Pastor Jim had decided to exercise his friendly responsibility and right by imposing upon the family.

The end result was a family holiday, the first in years, that was peaceful and even holiday-like. The New Year's celebrations were nothing short of a miracle, though Dean suspected that the heavy supply of liquor had something to do with his father's eventual acquiescence to the pastor's plans.

And so he listened to the sounds of boisterous manly bonding emanating from the kitchen, a genuine smile of contentment plastered on his young face, as his father enjoyed a normal night with the guys, laughing his drunken ass off. He thought he heard the occasional trill of a female voice, a light laugh mingling with the deep baritones, and couldn't imagine who the woman could be. Maybe she was a friend of Caleb's, Dean thought.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"I can't sleep."

Dean turned on his side and peeked over the edge of the bunk bed, peering down at his brother below.

"Do you want me to go ask them to keep it down?" Dean asked, not really wanting to do anything of the sort.

To his intense relief, his little brother shook his shaggy brown head.

"No, I like it when Daddy laughs," he said sweetly. "Can I come up on the top bunk with you?"

Dean considered it for a moment.

"Sure, but you ain't sleepin' up here."

"Kay."

Sam scurried out of bed and climbed his way up the wooden ladder on the side of the bed, hoisting himself up onto the bed beside his big brother. He paused and shrank a bit when he noticed the dreaded poster on the wall. An old, tattered Michael Jackson "Thriller" poster peered menacingly down at them, its colour faded from years of wear. Dean couldn't imagine how it had survived this long, or why it hadn't been removed from the wall of the tiny shared bedroom after all these years. Dean smirked at the expression on the young pop star's face, posed on his side, leaning on an elbow with one spangly-gloved hand and with a decidedly larger nose gracing his very serious face.

"I don't like that poster," Sam said in a small voice. "Makes me think of the werewolf."

"He's not really a werewolf, Sam," Dean assured his little brother. "It's just a costume he put on for a scary video. Like a movie or TV. You remember what I told you about TV, how it isn't real?"

"Mm-hmm." Still, the little boy's voice didn't sound very certain.

"I can take it down if you want," Dean offered. Though a part of him felt it would be a shame to do so, considering the poster had somehow managed to survive this long.

"No, that's ok," Sam said. "If we take it down, the wall might get lonely."

It was always a surprise to Dean to hear the bizarre crap that came out of his little brother's mouth. How could a wall get lonely, he wondered? But then he took in the sight of the bare walls in the stark and relatively empty room and thought better of it. Sam sure was smart for a six year-old.

"Gimme some room, Squirt, you're crowding me," Dean observed, inching away from his brother on the tiny bed.

"There's no room," Sam said. "Dean, I can't move any further 'cos I'm touching the wall."

In compromise, they both shuffled sideways so that their bodies were lying vertically along the bed, their heads nearly dangling off the side and their feet propped up against the wall. The cold wall felt good against Dean's hot feet.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Do you think we can have a birfday party for you this year?"

Dean squinted at his brother in the darkness.

"Huh?"

"'Cos your birfday is coming soon, right? I 'member 'cos it's right after Christmas." The little runt was grinning dimples at him, proud to have remembered.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean admitted. "Probably not."

"How come?" Sam pouted in disappointment. "Daddy's home and we got to do a real Christmas. How come we can't do a real birfday too?"

Dean tried his hardest to suppress a laugh at his brother's mispronounced words. For some reason Sam still couldn't quite get the hang of the 'th' thing with certain words, calling birthdays _birfdays_ and deafness _deathness_. Dean would never forget his father's utter bewilderment and confusion when Sam had tried explaining to him that he'd have to speak up with the landlady because she was _death_.

"Because I think Dad's probably going to be back on the hunt by then," Dean said soberly. "And it's birthday, Sam. Say it after me, thhhh." He put his lips between his teeth and exaggeratedly sounded out the th sound.

Sam obediently complied, his little pink tongue poking out between his teeth, his eyes scrunched in concentration.

"Atta boy," Dean said proudly, ruffling his hair.

"Hey, don't!" Sam protested, reaching with a dimpled hand to ruffle Dean's hair in retaliation.

A light skirmish followed, where Dean and Sam playfully wrestled on the bed, Dean reaching with quick, nimble fingers to tickle his little brother's armpits while the little tyke ineffectually attempted to do the same to him. Sam did manage to get an unexpected poke in, which unfortunately went straight into Dean's eye, which immediately elicited a series of curses from the older sibling.

"Goddamn!" the ten year-old hissed, clamping a hand over his weeping eye.

"I'm sorry Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "I was only playing! I didn't mean it!"

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean assured him, plucking his hand away and blinking past the stinging in the darkness. "Just an accident. Don't worry about it."

He brushed his foot against the wall to kick off a sticky corner of the poster that had torn off and stuck to his foot when his knee-jerk reaction to being poked had torn it. Grinning, he put both feet on the poster and began to slide his feet over its tattered edges, breaking a piece off here and there.

Sam scooted closer to his big brother so he could plant his feet on the poster too, his tiny feet hitting it with a splat sound that made both boys giggle.

Within minutes Michael Jackson was a tattered mess of shredded paper streaming all over the bed. Dean did his best impression of the pop star, which sent little Sam into fits of laughter, both boys hugging their sides and gasping for breath.

"I better not hear you boys up!" the gruff voice of their father suddenly cut in from the kitchen, silencing them both at once. "Goddamnit! They should have been asleep hours ago."

Dean could hear muffled voices and chairs squeaking against the floor as people began moving about.

"Well no wonder, John," he heard Bobby's voice say. "It's damned-near three in the morning."

"I can't imagine the boys were able to sleep with all the noise we've been making," Pastor Jim's voice added.

Dean gave Sam's hand a reassuring squeeze, letting him know that the party was over, and Sam obediently scooted toward the edge of the bed, climbing down and returning to his own bunk below. Dean scooped up the tattered pieces of paper and swept them off the bottom of his bed, closest to the far wall, so that his father wouldn't see them before he could clean them up in the morning. John was an ex-Marine. He didn't like mess in his house.

With the time brought to everyone's attention, the boys could distinctly hear the sounds of the party breaking up. Bottles clanked, chairs were rearranged, and shoulders were clapped as one by one the guests shuffled out the door with New Year's wishes. At last the Winchesters were alone.

But the voices from the kitchen continued, at least their father's did, and Dean then noticed that the female voice was still there. She said something that Dean couldn't hear, which elicited something like a belly grumble from their dad, and then the two were shuffling awkwardly down the hallway. Dean thought they must be drunk because they stumbled and were breathing funny.

He closed his eyes and felt sleep descending upon him, until the wall started shaking and the mystery woman started moaning in the next room – their dad's room. Dean held his pillow over his ears, not wanting to hear the sounds of the dreaded sex coming from their dad.

"Hey Dean?"

"What Sammy?" Dean asked in exasperation.

"Do you think that lady just kicked Daddy to help him get rid of his Smurf disease? 'Cos she sounds awfully unhappy."

And then Dean burst out laughing.

888

_Smurf disease_… Dean smiled, the memory of that New Year's Eve warming him in spite of the chills suddenly racking his body. He opened his eyes and blinked in confusion, not realizing at first where he was or why. He was drenched in sweat, a pool of it having collected near his collar bone, and his father was hovering over him like a mother hen.

"Hey, kiddo," John said, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Good news! Pastor Jim's here."

Dean tried to sit up but found he couldn't really move. He was trembling all over and when he tried to move he felt a cloak of dizziness wrap itself around him with a kind of strangle-hold that completely sapped him of all energy. He was lying on his back on Bobby's old couch, the smell of musty old fabric and dust, mixed with his own sweat, permeating the air around him.

"Hey Dad?" Dean asked breathlessly.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"You remember that Christmas when you broke your leg? And you had that New Year's poker party?"

John nodded.

"Sure, kiddo. I remember." He smiled warmly, trying to help keep his son's mind occupied, distracting him from the pain.

"Who was that chick you were bangin'?"

John nearly choked and Dean chuckled at his father's embarrassment, watching in amusement as his cheeks flushed red.

"Don't know what you're talking about…" he said gruffly, dismissively.

Dean's grin widened as he laughed, feeling slightly delirious and euphoric.

"Dude, the walls were shaking… the earth was quaking…"

John growled.

"I swear to God, Dean, if you start singing AC/DC…"

"Kay, no singing," Dean promised, his eyelids drooping.

"What made you think of that, anyway?" John asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Just thinkin' about Sammy," Dean admitted on a tired, exhaled breath, his handsome face melting in a sleepy, boyish grin. "He thought you gave that chick Smurf disease…"

John and Bobby exchanged confused, worried glances.

"So you entertained Merideth after we all left, did you John?" Jim said sagely, a grin quirking at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh shut up," John snapped. "Not the time, Murphy. Not the time."

"So we're all set," Bobby said, nodding nervously to his two comrades. "'Cos if we're gonna do this, we gotta do it now. I don't think Dean's gonna survive if that damned thing starts chowing down on another organ."

"Let's get it done," John said grimly.

The world tilted when rough hands seized Dean by both shoulders, hauling him to a sitting position. He groaned loudly as the movement caused spasms of pain to erupt in his abdomen. Jim sat next to him on the couch, both hands firmly placed on Dean's shoulder to keep him upright, while John took up position on the opposite side, a hand rubbing in circles along Dean's back.

"Time to take your medicine, there Deano," John said lightly, earning a tired, green-eyed glare from his son.

"Here you go," Bobby said, stepping in front of him and effectively boxing him in completely. Bobby was holding what looked like a very ancient silver goblet in his hands. Unlike the stone one the witch had used, this one was completely unadorned, shining in a seamless, uninterrupted glimmer of perfect silver.

"You gotta drink the whole thing," John ordered, his voice soft yet commanding. "Drink it all and keep it down. We don't have time to make more if you throw it up. You got me?"

"Yeah Dad," Dean said wearily. "If you see me about to hurl just, uh, hold me down or somethin'."

But he could tell by the way they were flanking him that they were already prepared for that.

The remedy was more disgusting than the witchy sludge he'd been force-fed earlier that day, tasting bitterly sour, like grass juice and bile with a mixture of herbs that smelled like dirt and felt gritty like sand. If his life didn't entirely depend on it, Dean would have gladly thrown it up. As it was, it was almost impossible to keep down.

The moment the disgusting mixture hit his stomach, his entire body revolted against it. His stomach heaved, his shoulders lurched, and hands were immediately pressing him back, clamping his mouth shut, his father's voice in his ear shushing him to just breathe deep. He swallowed it back, his eyes watering as his gag reflex fought to expel the nasty concoction invading him.

Then his body revolted again, this time more strongly. His father's strong arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, pulling him back against his chest in a kind of mugger's hug from behind.

"Swallow it, Dean," his father commanded in his ear, his scruffy chin pressed firmly against Dean's cheekbone. "Swallow!"

With monumental effort, Dean swallowed the twice-risen potion, his body writhing in protest even as he tried to still it.

"Deep breaths," John whispered, his hot breath on Dean's ear. "Deep breaths, kiddo."

It took several minutes to ride the wave, John Winchester's voice in his ear the anchor that kept Dean grounded against the overwhelming urge to vomit. Eventually his breathing slowed, the feeling finally passed, and Dean was able to relax, slumped like a dead weight against his father's chest. Only then did John release his hand from his son's mouth.

"Good job, kiddo," he said proudly.

"You know if you wanted to hug me, you could have just asked," Dean whispered. "No need to tackle me to play touchy-feely."

The three elder hunters let out explosive breaths of relief, glad to see that Dean was still feeling well enough to be a smart mouth.

"So what's this stuff supposed to do?" Dean asked blearily.

"Well first of all, it'll kill the damned mole," Bobby said. "It's also supposed to have some kind of healing property to it to counteract the damage. Can't regrow any organs or nothin,' but at least you won't bleed to death from what's already been taken… At least, in theory."

"In theory," Dean said, huffing a laugh. "Awesome."

What they didn't know was that the mole would put up such a fight when the potion took effect. As soon as the invasive draught launched its attack against the intruder to Dean's body, the mole began thrashing around madly, struggling to survive. It clamped onto every bit of tissue it could get a hold on, eliciting screams from the young hunter that stilled the blood of the three men who were trying to save him.

Each man struggled to keep his eyes dry as the young man before them struggled against the internal attacker that was tearing him up from the inside. They could do little to help him, other than hold him, reassure him, and prevent him from hurting himself as he thrashed in pain. One particularly vicious stab had Dean kicking so hard his booted foot smashed Bobby's coffee table cleanly in half.

Both Bobby and Jim were completely unprepared for how strong Dean was, how strong he had become since he had grown to be a man. They were both used to seeing the little boy, stringy, wiry, and strong, but still a boy and easy enough to overpower by the adults around. This was Dean the man, Dean the hunter, Dean John Winchester's fully-grown soldier, a lethal killing machine. And the strength exhibited by the desperate, pain-driven young man was amazing and frightening to witness. A strike from Dean's flailing fist nearly broke Jim Murphy's jaw, leaving the older hunter in no doubt that if they were ever to come to blows now, Dean would effortlessly clean his clock.

The struggling went on for what felt like hours, though in reality was only about twenty minutes. The potion eventually overpowered the magical mole, enveloping it and eradicating it as though it had never existed. Dean went slack, his screaming ceasing as the thing inside him went still and then disappeared. His deep, panting breaths were the only indication that he had been in any distress.

"There we go," John said soothingly, not taking his hands off of his son, who he was still holding from behind. "All done now, Dean."

And it _was_ done. Dean could feel that the wretched parasite was gone, had finished its hideous gorge fest and been sent packing. The potion, whatever the hell it was, was still working its voodoo magic on him, coursing through him in strange, tingling sensations. It bubbled through his belly, rippling through his abdomen in soothing waves, and he knew instinctively (and also because Bobby told him) that it was doing some kind of healing.

So Dean smiled. He probably hopefully wasn't going to be saying goodbye to Sammy after all.

* * *

**End Notes:** Next chapter has more Sam in it. Hope you enjoyed, and as ever, thanks for reading and reviewing!


	6. And It Stoned Me

**Chapter Notes:**

More of the gang at Bobby's, and more of Sam in Palo Alto. Only two chapters left and then we're wrapping up and moving on to the next story in the series!

* * *

John watched the steady breathing of the prone figure on the couch, his pale face ghostly white in the stark light of Bobby Singer's living room, dark shadows dancing across his high cheek bones, his perfect, straight nose, his soft, pouty, angelic lips. God, he looked so much like Mary it made his soul ache, a tight throbbing through his very being that threatened to take him to his knees. If it weren't for the two older hunters watching with him, he'd have collapsed in mingled relief and anguish. It was just too fucking much.

"That was too close," he whispered, not daring to take his eyes off of his eldest son's slumbering form. "That bitch almost got him."

"Not to point fingers, but this mighta been one of those times where tellin' him the whole story would have come in handy," Bobby said pointedly. The scruffy old bugger could be counted on to nit-pick when it came to John's treatment of his eldest son. "Dean never woulda been caught with his pants down if he'd known what the hell was going on."

"Bobby," Jim admonished lightly, not wanting to see a fight erupt between the two hunters. "Leave it be."

"I kept him in the dark for his own protection," John insisted. "I was hoping… God, I just wanted to keep him out of it so he wouldn't be in any danger at all."

"Then why'd you bother bringin' him along?" Bobby asked. "If you didn't want him in on the hunt, why the hell'd you send him off to salt the dead witch's bones?"

"And what was I supposed to do, leave him alone?" John snapped.

"John, he's twenty-two. He doesn't need you as a damned babysitter," Bobby hissed.

"Easy, boys," Jim reminded them. "Can't this wait for another time? We've all had a rough night, so why don't we jus—"

"In case you haven't noticed, Bobby," John ground out, "we're missing a certain shaggy-haired side-kick. Sam's gone, and Dean's feelin' kinda lost right now. You think I should have just ditched him to take out this witch, right after his brother walked out on us?"

His glare was enough to melt ice and Bobby coughed uncomfortably, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"He's takin' it hard, huh?" he asked instead.

John nodded.

"He doesn't talk about it, but you don't have to be a genius to tell. I mean, they did spend pretty much every waking moment together. And you know Dean – there's nothing he wouldn't do for Sammy."

"He certainly doted on the boy," Jim mused, smiling wistfully. "In his own sarcastic, prickly way."

"Yeah, well, that's just Dean," John agreed. "He's all rough on the outside."

"And pudding on the inside," Bobby finished for him.

They all chuckled quietly.

"Helluva strong arm that boy's got," Bobby whispered conversationally. "How's your face doin', eh, Jimmy?"

"Throbbing," the holy man said with a smile, which made John grin from ear to ear.

"I don't even think he realizes," John said, almost absently. "How strong he is, I mean."

Bobby and Jim nodded, all eyes on Dean as he slept in a potion-induced, comatose-like state.

"God, I almost lost him," John admitted brokenly. "What would I have done…?" His voice warbled with barely restrained emotion. "He begged me to make the pain stop and I couldn't do a damned thing. I just watched him… What if we hadn't gotten to him in time? Or what if the damned hoo doo slop didn't work?"

"None of that matters," Jim assured him, laying a hand on his shoulder for comfort and strength. "We _were_ in time, and it _did_ work. And Dean's going to be just fine."

"This can't happen again," John insisted, clearing his throat and sniffing loudly. "Not to Dean. I can't… I can't..." He cleared his throat again. "Jesus, I just can't. Not without him."

_The world would stop turning if you weren't here, Dean. I would fucking fall apart, you hear me son? Of course you can't hear me, and you'll probably never hear me say this because I'm a terrible fucking father and I can't tell you how I really feel because then you'll know how weak I really am, and how much I count on you for fucking everything. And if you knew how much weight was actually on your shoulders you'd probably be crushed under it. But since you don't know, somehow you can bear it. You really don't have any idea how strong you are._

"Dean's one of the strongest people I know, and one of the best hunters I've seen," Jim said, as if reading John's private thoughts. "He'll get by."

"But he ain't invincible," Bobby pointed out. "John, I'm tellin' ya, if you don't take care with him, you're gonna –"

"I need to see Sam," John suddenly said. "I need to see him, like now. I need to know that he's all right."

"Sam? What, now?" Bobby asked. "Are you nuts?"

"He's doin' God-knows-what in California and I haven't even been by to check on him," John said stubbornly, as if realizing now, a week after the fact, that his youngest son was on his own and vulnerable. "I almost lost one son tonight. I need to know that the other one is ok. I need to see it with my own eyes."

"Of course, John," Jim placated. "But why don't you wait until Dean is well enough to come with you? Surely he'll want to come along."

"No," John said, his mind a million miles away. "I can't wait for Dean. I need to see Sam now."

"You stupid ass!" Bobby spat. "You're goin' about this whole thing back asswards!"

"What?" John's tone had a confrontational ring to it.

"You nearly got this one killed, and instead of bein' here for him when he wakes up, you're gonna high tail it out of town to check on the one that don't wanna see ya 'cos you kicked him out and told him never to come back! Could your head be shoved any further up your ass?"

"You better shut it, Singer, or so help me," John threatened in a harsh whisper.

The two gruff men were suddenly standing toe to toe, sizing each other up as if readying themselves to go to blows. Pastor Jim Murphy wedged himself between them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders to pry them apart.

"Enough!" he hissed. "I can't believe the two of you are doing this now! You both need to get your heads together and focus! In case you've forgotten, that boy has had a mystical entity eating parts of his body. Now might be a good time to take inventory and make sure he's actually going to walk away from this."

That certainly got everyone's attention.

John's anger fizzled out, to be replaced once again by worry and grief, his face slackening and paling in an instant.

"You don't think he's out of the woods?" he asked, almost pleading. "But Dean said he felt like it was healing him. And you said he was going to be _'just fine.'_"

Jim nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, I think the potion definitely has some healing properties," he admitted quietly. "But it would be a good idea to get him to a hospital."

"And do what, exactly?" John asked. "Tell the doctors that we need to do an ultrasound to check for missing organs? Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?"

"I hate to say it, but Johnny's right," Bobby said reluctantly. "Besides, with Dean's unique injuries, there's a chance this would somehow get back to the cops. Where they're lookin' for him in Detroit for the grave desecration thing, it's probably not a good idea."

"So what, then? What do we do?" John asked. "Steal an ultrasound machine?"

"We'll think of something," Jim said sagely.

888

"And then I swear, she came at me with a mayonnaise jar."

Sam was laughing so hard he almost couldn't come up with a reply to Jenny's last statement. They had done the tour of the campus, which had been a real treat for the youngest Winchester, and had settled down on the couch of a snug little café near the library. The little blonde was an excellent tour guide, being both sweet and informative, funny and kind. He listened to her with rapt attention, hanging off of every word like a silly school boy. His dimpled smile let her know just how much he was enjoying his time with her, and she made no attempts to hide her own regard for him.

"She came at you?" he said at last, incredulous but grinning so tight his cheeks hurt.

"Charged me," she said with added emphasis. "The mayonnaise jar was held aloft like some kind of primitive weapon – and she came at me full on like she was going to club me with it. My hand to God."

"And what did you do?" he asked.

She shrugged, pulling a mouthful of Coke through her straw before continuing her story.

"What any girl my size would do when faced with an enraged cousin. I ran like hell."

Sam could definitely understand her predisposition toward the flight response – at 5'4, Jennifer Johnson was what he would definitely consider petite, having a small-boned frame and lean musculature. Against her taller and more athletic cousin, she likely would have faced a serious pummelling.

"A wise decision," he said at last, taking a sip of his own drink.

"So now you know for future reference, if you ever see her again – _never_ tell Darla Emery to calm down."

It took quite a while for their laughter to die down as they went over the finer points of Darla's strange temper and frightening outburst. Sam was used to dealing with Dean, whose reactions to things were relatively predictable. It was probably a guy thing: but with Dean there was rarely any guessing. He wasn't much for talking things through or feeling his way around a situation – so there were never any embarrassing 'talks' about feelings and emotions. And he certainly wasn't one to over-analyze a situation, which meant if something was on his mind it either got buried , was forgotten or dismissed, or was duked out with good old fashioned fist-fighting. It was a simple formula, but it made knowing where he stood with Dean pretty easy.

Women were different. Sam was amazed and awed by Jenny's tales about her sister and her cousin, gobsmacked that women could get into fights over borrowed lipstick or missed phone calls. Then again, Dean could be as pissy as any girl, throwing tantrums or hissy fits, if anyone screwed with the Impala. Only in his case, he was far more likely to resort to using a weapon more effective than a mayonnaise jar.

"So how about you?" she asked, leaning on an elbow and smiling brightly. "Any funny stories about your family? Any bizarre or irrational fights?"

Sam's face fell.

"Not really," he said absently. _Unless you count my bull-headed Dad banning me from joining the soccer team and disowning me for going to college_.

"You have any brothers or sisters?" she asked, worried she was stepping in it. He had run away, after all. Maybe he didn't want to talk about his family. In fact, he probably didn't want to talk about his family.

"Yeah, I have a brother," he admitted.

"Older or younger?"

"Older."

She smiled.

"So you're the baby like me."

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Sucks, doesn't it? I swear, Mo mothered me so much when we were growing up, I was so glad when she turned eighteen and moved out!" She paused, then looked alarmed. "Not that we didn't get along! I love my sister more than anything. I was just glad to have some space, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam said, knowing fully what she meant. For all his swagger and pretensions of being a hard-ass, Dean was more like a mother-hen to his baby brother most of the time.

"So funny stories – come on, I'm sure you must have some. The Winchesters can't be all bad."

_You don't even know the half of it_, Sam thought.

"We don't really have many funny stories," _that don't involve ghosts or monsters_, Sam thought.

"There's gotta be something. Older brother, crazy cousin, drunken uncle?"

Sam thought about it, racking his brain for something he could tell that would make his family life not seem tragic and pathetic. Then something flickered to mind.

888

_June 24, 2000_

"Look, will you just be cool already?" Dean said with a hiss, giving his younger brother a thorough shake to stop his fidgeting. "Your ID's fine, they're _going_ to let you in."

"Dean, this ID says my name is Jose Gonzales!" Sam spat, quietly enough that the bouncer at the front of the line-up wouldn't hear.

Dean chuckled and grinned, pleased with his fake ID-making abilities, and especially tickled pink at his brother's discomfort. The night club that they were trying to gain admittance to, the Silvery Moon, was a hot spot for young people, filled beyond capacity every weekend with young co-eds looking to get drunk and get screwed. A recent rash of mysterious and potentially supernatural deaths had drawn the two young hunters to it, and Dean was determined to make the best of this particular recon job.

"Lighten up, sasquatch," he said with a winning smile. "You're tall enough and built enough to pass for twenty-one. If you'd only stop pulling the wounded puppy face and maybe look like you're here to have a good frickin' time."

Sam huffed loudly and bit his lip. They had a job to do. He wasn't going to let Dean get him riled up. _Sam, of course, didn't mention the part about the job to Jenny in the retelling of this story_.

It took another five minutes for them to make their way to the front of the line, where the bouncer promptly held out his hand to verify their ages on their IDs. He paused, taking in Sam's shifty eyes, his agitated stance, and then turned swiftly to observe Dean, who was smiling lazily, casually. Something didn't smell right and the Winchesters could see this registering on his face.

He scrutinized Sam's ID a long moment and then handed it back with a grim nod, waving the younger, taller brother through with a jerk of his head in the direction of the door. He paused to inspect Dean's ID.

"Winchester?" he asked warily, his eyes poring over the card in his hand with a museum curator's careful scrutiny.

"That's right," Dean said confidently. His ID was real, after all.

"Like the rifle?"

"Like the rifle," Dean replied. He made to move inside but the bouncer's hand on his chest stopped him.

"Nice try," the man said, handing Dean's ID back and waving him to move off toward the crowded sidewalk.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Dean asked incredulously, his eyes darting to his younger brother, who was standing inside the entrance with a bemused grin on his face.

"Yeah, how'd you guess?" the man snarked. "This is random-pretend-to-refuse-admittance-night at the Silvery Moon. Take a hike, kid."

He had obviously mistaken Sam's nervousness and Dean's swagger to mean the exact opposite of what they really meant: that Sam was the younger of the two and Dean was of age. Apparently, Dean's over-confidence was the give-away, leading the man to the wrong conclusion.

"Why the hell won't you let me in?" Dean demanded. Sam was positively doubled over with laughter.

"Because you ain't twenty-one," the bouncer replied, shouldering past Dean to admit the next person in line.

"But I _am_ twenty-one!" Dean insisted. On one of the few occasions when he was using his real ID and wasn't lying he suddenly found himself being accused of being a liar. _Oh, the irony_.

"Save it for Halloween, kid," the bouncer said dismissively.

"So hang on, you let _him_ in but you won't let me?" Dean snorted with incredulity, indicating Sam.

"Yeah," the bouncer said. "Look pal, you wanna hang out with your big brother, you're gonna have to do it somewhere else."

"Big brother?" Dean bellowed, his face a thundercloud. "You think _he's_ the big brother?"

"That's right, shorty," the man retorted, stepping toward Dean to tower over him with his 6'5 bulk forming a wall of rock flesh before the young hunter. "Now step off before I step you off."

Dean glared daggers at him, his jade eyes narrowed to laser slits, his nostrils flaring with anger. He was humiliated, mortified, and pissed as hell. As soon as the kid had started to grow into Jack's beanstalk Dean had had his suspicions that this freakish height thing with Sam was going to be a problem. But he had never in his life been mistaken for Sam's younger brother. It was wrong on every possible level.

Without another word Dean turned on a heel and stormed off, leaving Sam to make his way into the club by himself to do his research.

Sam would have liked to have returned to console his brother, but they really did have a job to do. And a part of him got intense satisfaction from the thought that someone thought he was bigger and older than Dean. Somehow every wedgie, every noogie, every headlock, Charlie horse, and arm twisted behind his back by his very physical older brother felt suddenly retaliated, revenged. Sam began to have very real ideas that some day he might be bulkier than Dean, at which time he would exact sweet vengeance for every time his brother had whooped his ass. He would definitely have to rib Dean when he got home about his girlie looks making him look like a teenager.

Oh yes, he would ride the high of this small triumph in their brotherly war for years to come.

888

"So they seriously didn't let him in?" Jenny asked.

Sam shook his head.

"Nope. I don't know why they bought my ID and not his – I mean Jose Gonzales? Dean swore up and down the bouncer had it out for him."

"That must have really pissed him off," Jenny noted.

"Like Darla with the mayonnaise jar," Sam concurred. "He hates that he's shorter than me." Then he laughed as another thought struck him. "You know, he stopped shaving after that? He was so paranoid that people would think I was older that he stopped shaving. For over a year now he's had this perma-five o'clock shadow thing going."

Jenny laughed heartily.

"Aw, poor big brother literally standing in his little brother's shadow. That's too cute. Not really a problem for me and Mo. She's way taller than me."

The conversation then moved back to Jenny and her family, which Sam was very thankful for. Talking about Dean was making him miss his big brother, and also making him feel guilty for not having called him yet. The ball was most definitely in Sam's court, considering that Dean had called him numerous times and had left him several text messages. In his desperation to get away and fear of being drawn back home, Sam had avoided answering his phone or replying to his texts, with a few brief exceptions. He just wasn't ready to talk to him yet.

"So listen," Jenny said at last, "I think we should exchange phone numbers. That way maybe you can call me sometime and we can maybe do this again…?"

Sam's face brightened immediately. _Dean Schmean_.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied eagerly.

He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his cell phone. When he flipped it open to enter her number into his contacts list, he noticed right away that there was a missed call. A quick perusal of the call log and his heart froze. The call was from Dad's cell number.

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Why did he call me?_

The call had come through hours ago. Sam tried to keep himself calm and rational. If something terrible had happened they would have called again. But then, why else would his father have called? Sam wasn't foolish or naïve enough to think John Winchester was anywhere near ready to swallow his pride. Which only meant that something must be wrong. And since it wasn't Dean who had called, that meant something must be wrong with Dean.

_Oh God! Ohgodohgod!_

"Can you hold on for a second?" Sam asked Jenny, not really waiting for a response before he pressed the speed dial for Dean's cell number.

"Sure," she replied, her own cell held aloft in her hand in readiness to record Sam's number.

The phone did not ring, but immediately went to an automated message. _"The number you have dialled has been disconnected."_

_Oh God!! Ohgodohgodohgodohgod! Dean?!_

Sam choked back the panic, his face draining of all colour.

"Sam?" Jenny asked, her voice ringing with concern as she witnessed the sudden pallor in the young man's face. "Everything ok?"

Sam shook his head. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Dean must be hurt. Or maybe Dean and Dad were both hurt? Maybe some doctor who had found their dad's cell phone among the personal effects of the two elder and recently deceased Winchesters had dialled Sam's number in the hopes of notifying next of kin. He felt like he might be sick.

"Something's wrong," Sam said, swallowing hard. "There's a missed call from my dad, and I can't get ahold of Dean. His number's been disconnected."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Jenny tried to assure him. "Maybe you should try giving your Dad a call, though?"

Sam bit his lip in thought. He did not want to have to call his dad. But not being able to get through to Dean's number was ominous. The initial call from his dad was ominous. What if Dean was dying and Sam didn't have time to get to him?

"Yeah, I think you're right," Sam said quietly, holding the phone in his hand and willing himself to dial the number he so dreaded dialling.

As it was, he was saved the trouble. Just then, as if in answer to Sam's silent struggles, the cell phone began to vibrate, chiming out a tinny version of Radiohead's "Creep."

Dad was calling again.

888

"Where're we going?" Dean asked blurrily as he was hoisted off of the couch and slumped over his father's shoulder in a fireman's carry, the bustling movement around him from moments before having pulled him at last from his potion-induced slumber.

"Just gettin' you checked out," John said casually, grunting under the weight of his less-than-featherweight eldest son.

"I need to call Sammy," Dean said, licking his dry lips. He felt sluggish and stupid, the effects of the potion leaving him groggy and very out-of-it. "Dude, am I high?"

"Possibly," John admitted, pausing to consider the implications of his son's question. "Though you'd better not have anything to compare this with."

"My body is a temple," Dean said soberly, or trying to sound sober. "Hey we should go to that bar in town… Whatsit called? Ricky's? Rocky's? There was this hot blonde chick who seemed pretty keen on worshipping at the temple o'Dean."

"I bet she does, slugger," John said with a sigh. "Hey, you think you can maybe walk a bit?"

"Course!" Dean insisted. "Pumme down, man. I can totally walk."

John hunched over and allowed Dean to slide off of his shoulder, his feet making contact with the floor as John stood up. As soon as he let go, Dean slid to the ground in a boneless heap.

"Whoa, how did I get down here?" Dean asked, completely perplexed. "'Z'like the ground just bit me in the face."

"Up you go," Bobby said, taking Dean's left shoulder as John took the right. They hauled him to his feet once again and each took a place at his side, holding him steady. "We're just gonna make a quick trip to the hospital to use their ultrasound machine," he explained, not really expecting Dean to understand his words or remember them later.

"Kay," Dean replied on an inhaled breath.

"You think this is gonna work?" John asked his friend.

"We've conned our way into morgues and government facilities," Bobby said with a shrug. "Getting' ahold of their ultrasound machine should be a piece of cake."

"I'll take that as a no, then," Jim quipped, grabbing his keys from the table in the library and rejoining his comrades in the living room.

John didn't even notice Dean's hand snaking through his jacket to retrieve his cell phone, but he did catch sight of the young man's hands fumbling with the keys to dial a number.

"Just gonna make a quick call," Dean explained. "Gonna give Sammy a very quick call."

John grimaced but did not argue or make a move to stop him. He only hoped that Sam was in the mood to talk to his inebriated big brother.

888

Dad was calling.

Something like vomit-inducing terror gripped him, but he shoved it back and steadied himself as he pressed the call button in answer and held the cell phone to his ear. When he tried to say hello his voice failed him, not even emitting a whisper as his lips parted and no sound came forth.

"_Sammy?"_ Dean's voice came through on the other line. _"Hey, Sammy boy? You there?"_

"Dean?" Relief washed over him in an instant.

"_Hey!"_ his big brother's voice called loudly and jovially through the phone. _"M'glad I caught you, man. 'M'just headin' out 'n wanted to say 'hi.' So hey, man!"_

The relief he'd felt a millisecond ago was rapidly being replaced by confusion, and the smallest hint of anger.

"Are you drunk?" Sam asked.

"_No, no, no, no, no,"_ Dean intoned seriously, obviously off his gourd with intoxication. _"'M just ridin' the wave, man. Just wanted to check up on my little brother."_

"Riding the wave?" Sam asked, his face heating. "What the hell does that mean, Dean? Are you stoned?"

"_Course not,"_ Dean said with an exaggerated pshaw. _"Well… possibly. Dad says maybe."_

"Dad says?" The heat in Sam's face was threatening an immanent bout of spontaneous combustion. "Dean, what the hell is going on? Why aren't you calling me from your phone?"

"_Lost it,"_ his brother's voice said slurrily. _"Got pinched by the fuzz and they totally have all my shit, man. My favourite gun, bro. Can you believe that?"_

Sam huffed loudly.

"I can't believe you're doing this," he said under his breath. "So you were arrested, and decided to get high and then call me from _Dad's_ phone? I can't believe you… Do you have any idea…? I just can't believe you would do this, after everything…"

He was overcome with emotion. His fear had been so strong, so staggering, leaving him feeling so helpless and powerless, knowing that his family was far, far away and that if something was wrong he wouldn't be able to do anything to help them. And then to learn that this was some kind of drug-induced drunk dial, on Dad's phone of all things, and that his own feelings and worries hadn't been taken into consideration at all…. How could Dean do it?

"_Whoa, calm down, dude,"_ he heard his brother say, sighing contentedly through the line. _"'S'all gonna be ok, man. Dad says we are seriously good to go."_

"Good go to," Sam said hollowly.

"_Yeah, 'n we gotta go now, man."_ There was a muffled sound and Sam distinctly heard his father's voice growl out, _"All right, Dean. You're hanging up now."_

"'_Mmmkay, gotta go now, Sammy. You be good, kay? Don't forget to have fun while you're at college, and for God's sake find some girl to steal your cherry, 'cos bein' a virgin at eighteen is just so many kinds of wrong, man."_

Sam's face was burning, his cheeks flushed with anger and sudden humiliation. Without another word he hung up, praying Jenny couldn't see his mortification, praying she hadn't managed to somehow overhear his brother's stinging and thoughtless words.

**End Notes:**

FYI, that story with the mayonaise jar is one of personal experience. Man chicks can be scary sometimes. I will advise anyone to use the words "calm down" with extreme caution. Apparently it's not the appropriate thing to say to your best friend when you're 15, she's pitching a hissy fit because you didn't hear her shouting at you to come answer the phone, and you're completely missing all the danger signs that would otherwise warn you that she's about to slam the fridge door, causing the shelf to fall off and all the things in the fridge to fall out. And then I'll warn you that laughing at the spilling of the items, when you're several inches shorter and about 20 pounds skinnier/runtier than your best friend is just plain STOOPID. The attack with the mayonaise jar didn't end with me running. Oh no! She grabbed my throat and forced me out the front door, first. I've been best friends with the girl for over 20 years, so it's obviously water under the bridge now (it being almost 15 years since that happened). But I will say, there are people who have anager management issues, and when you tell them to "calm down" you are taking your life in your hands. You've been warned.


	7. Closing Time

**Chapter Notes:**

Just a short chapter, mostly John-centric.

* * *

There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the sun blasting through the windshield with a blinding intensity that made his eyes hurt. He squinted, shielding his face with a heavily calloused hand over his brow, willing the light to ease off enough to lend him some reprieve, but the sun had other plans. California was working to slow cook John Winchester in his black truck. _And there's a lesson for you, John. Don't always go for fucking black._

Palo Alto was a nice enough town, though a little too cookie-cutter for his liking. As far as places went, though, it was perfect for Sam. He could just picture his lanky young son making himself right at home amongst the pretty blonde co-eds and the tweed-jacketed intellectuals of the Stanford scene. Compared with the backwater towns, dingy motel rooms and abandoned homes they occasionally squatted in, this place was a veritable paradise. And that suited him just fine, so long as Sam was safe.

He'd left Dean. Left him at the hospital with Jim and Bobby the moment he'd seen with his own eyes that his eldest was going to be fine, the missing kidney and appendix notwithstanding. It had been a no-brainer, really. On the one hand he needed to see Sam, so badly that his skin was itching to plunge the keys into the truck and peel onto the highway with tyre-squealing ferocity. His boy was out there in the big world all alone, and John needed to see him. He needed it like a drowning man needs oxygen, or a man lost in the desert needs water. It was a real physical need that ached within him.

And then there was Dean, the son he'd almost gotten killed, the son who was two organs short now because he'd fucked up so royally and allowed the kid to become collateral damage on one of his hunts. Every time he looked into that trusting face, pale like death and plastered with a mask of bravery, he had to resist the urge to double over and vomit. What had happened to Dean was all his fault, and being the coward that he knew he was, he couldn't even face the kid – needed to get as far away as possible from him so he wouldn't see those goddamned trust-filled eyes locked on his.

So he'd split. When Dean was well enough, Jim would take him back to Detroit to retrieve the Impala. It was a testament to how out-of-t Dean really was that he hadn't even asked about his car yet. Another pang of guilt stabbing at his gut, wrenching out the well-deserved suffering from the father who'd set his eldest son up as some kind of lamb on a sacrificial stone. Sam was right to want to leave.

And then he saw him. Tall and graceful, shoulders relaxed, head held high, his stride confident, his steps deliberate, and looking to all the world like he'd just won the lottery, his face shining brightly in a dimpled grin as a pretty, tiny blonde girl walked at his side, came Sam Winchester. John snorted a laugh in spite of himself.

Here was Sam, intent on proving to himself and the world that he was nothing like his wayward father and brother, having already met a pretty girl who seemed positively gaga over him as she leaned into his side as they walked together through the campus, laughing and joking. Sam, who'd been so sullen and shy and had barely bothered to talk to girls because it only led to heartache and separation later, was now flirting it up with a pretty little co-ed – channelling his inner Dean without even knowing it. _His boys weren't so different after all_.

Then he saw their hands twine together in a classic public display of affection. _Maybe not_. The day Dean held a girl's hand would be the day John Winchester ate his own shirt.

And now John was grinning stupidly. _God the kid looked happy_. John didn't think he'd ever seen Sam look so relaxed. He'd been away for two weeks and already looked at home here under the warm California sun. His skin was tanned to a healthy bronze, his eyes bright and full of life. It made John realize how truly unhappy his son had been for the past few years.

_And the Worst Father of the Year Award goes to…_

A shaggy brown head turned lazily in his direction and John lunged to his side, burying himself deep in the seat to remain out of the line of fire. If Sam saw him now, hiding in his car, spying on him like some kind of creepy, pervert stalker, there would be hell to pay the likes of which he'd never known. And what defence could he possibly use against the kid who'd claimed his independence, who'd fought his way out from underneath his father's iron thumb, who'd won freedom at the cost of exile? There was none. If Sam knew what he was up to it would ruin their relationship forever, and John wasn't so sure it wasn't already that far gone to begin with.

John had already done a thorough recon job. He'd checked out the youth hostel and had found it safe enough, but had added a few protective charms and sigils just to be on the safe side. He'd paid a visit to the pub where Sam was bussing tables, making a point of sizing up the staff and clientele to make sure it was a safe enough place for his youngest. Not that there was a damned thing John could do about it if it wasn't. It certainly wasn't as if he could order the kid to quit, forbid him from working there. That power had ended the moment Sam walked out the door. But still, John needed to know. He needed to see with his own eyes that Sam was safe. Knowing that Sam was safe would make moving on without him bearable. And maybe then he could be there for Dean the way he knew he should be – the way Dean needed him to be. And he owed it to Dean to at least try to be the father he deserved.

_Yeah right, because starting when the kid's twenty-two isn't in any way too little too late, eh John? _

John rose slowly from his crouched position, relieved to see that his son and his little friend had continued in their flirtatious jaunt through the campus without having spotted him. He watched as they disappeared down the student path, hand-in-hand. And then he got out of his truck and did what any crazy, over-protective and controlling ex-marine father would do. He followed them.

The day passed without incident as John shadowed his youngest son through the day, a silent observer to the kid's routine. He watched as Sam bade the girl goodbye. He skulked near the bushes and observed as Sam made his way to the youth hostel to get ready for his shift in the evening. He followed him to the pub, retreating to the safety and darkness of his truck while Sam wiled away the hours until it was closing time. And then he silently slid out of the cab to follow his son back to the hostel. Just to see the day completed. Once he saw that Sam was safely secured in his room, John could leave.

The two hulking figures following the tall and lanky youth through the dark streets reminded him of why he was there.

John picked up his pace, moving on soundless feet as he stole his way toward the would-be muggers who were shadowing Sam. They didn't even see him coming as he cut in front of them, allowing Sam to make his oblivious escape.

"Whoa, whoa," John said to a strung-out youth with dark circles around his eyes who stank of stale beer and cigarettes. "Where'd you think you're going, huh?"

The young man halted, shifting nervously on his feet at the unexpected intruder. He looked to his partner, an equally strung-out-looking youth who had a large tattoo scrawling across the left side of his neck.

"Outta my way, old man," the second youth ordered, attempting to sound menacing.

"Walk away," John warned, his eyes flinty and black in the darkness. "You got three seconds."

The first youth sneered and drew out a switchblade.

"Oh yeah?" he said defiantly, thinking he had the upper hand. "Whatcha gonna do, huh?"

The uppercut to the nose that sent him sprawling in a boneless heap onto his back was John's reply.

"Like I said," John said evenly, his eyes looking up from the limp figure on the ground with heavy, confident lids, his lips curling at the corners into a vicious grin. "Walk. Away."

The second youth swung with a closed fist, which John caught effortlessly in an open palm, his fingers squeezing closed over it and twisting the wrist with a sickening crunch. The young man screamed in pain, but John Winchester was teaching a lesson tonight. He reached out with his other hand and fisted the man's hair, yanking his head forward and cracking him in the jaw with a sharp swing of his knee. The kid went down like dirty laundry.

"Now," John warned, feeling light and refreshed after the exertion. "Get a fucking job. Because as far as muggers go, you're a goddamned disgrace."

He turned to leave but then paused.

"And if I ever catch you coming after my son again," he added as an afterthought, "I'll kill you."

There. His job was done.

888

Sam wasn't answering his phone. Or replying to his voicemail. Or his text messages. Or his e-mails.

It was a suck-ass feeling, Dean decided. Being alone. Dad was gone, had left without him to go see Sam – probably because Dean had screwed up by getting pinched by the fuzz and then getting caught by a witch in the same freakin' day. Hell, he'd had to ask for help from Bobby and Pastor Jim, and anyone who knew John Winchester knew he hated asking for help.

And now Dean was alone. No Dad. No Sam. Bobby had reluctantly told him that he'd called Sam while he was out of it and had said some pretty whacked-out and insensitive things, not the least of which being something about Sam being some kind of freak for still being a virgin. And if that wasn't bad enough, Dean had obviously given his kid brother the impression that he was stoned out of his mind when he'd called. Sam could be such a freakin' prude when it came to walking the straight and narrow, and he'd never been one to hide his disapproval of his big brother's wild ways. But this would take the cake, especially considering Sam had actually bothered to answer the phone this time, after a week of silence, only to be insulted by his screw-up big brother.

Not that Dean hadn't teased him mercilessly about his virgin stain before. It was something to rib him about, just like how Sam was forever ribbing Dean about being a caveman. But the timing on this one was all off, and the circumstances around it even worse. Combined, it amounted to one pissed off Sam.

And now they were _both_ avoiding him.

Yep, being alone sucked out loud. It reminded him of everything he didn't have. When he was alone he was left with the big empty void that was his life. No friends, no girlfriend, no job, no prospects, no future. There was just Dad and Sam and the job. And now Sam was gone, probably for good. Dean had hoped that his kid brother would at least want to keep in touch, maybe visit or be visited once in a while. But his hopes on that score were being dashed pretty quickly. Sam wanted _out_. Out of the family.

And now Dad was gone too, scampering away from Dean like one would flee a plague city. And what was left of Dean's life? Well, there was the car. And uh, let's see, there was the job. But, oh yeah, he couldn't do that without Dad because he'd probably end up getting killed. So what did Dean have? A big steaming pile of nothing, that's what.

He was lost.

When he was really little, before he understood about monsters, Dean had wanted to be a fireman. He remembered thinking, with a small child's innocence and skewed sense of how the world works, that if he could fight fires that maybe somehow his mom would come back. Then as he grew a bit older and came to understand that death was permanent, he'd thought that he could at least save other peoples' moms. That was probably the only dream he had ever had.

But then there were monsters. And there were weapons, and sleepless nights, and blood spatters, and children screaming, and torched graves and life-sucking witches… And suddenly fighting fires just seemed like such a small thing, such an insignificant means of saving other peoples' moms, in the face of all that darkness, all that evil. That's when he knew that he wanted to be a hunter. He needed to be a hunter.

Sam always had lots of dreams, big dreams, dreams covered in chocolate fudge with sprinkles on top. He wanted the career as a big shot attorney, the house with the white picket fence, the wife and two kids and the Golden Retriever named Rusty. Sam always wanted the life.

But not Dean. Dean never wanted to fall in love. The very idea of giving his hollow heart to someone, someone who could toss it back to him in revulsion when they learned that there was nothing inside, that there was no Dean Winchester, was beyond horrifying. Loving someone the way that Dad loved Mom left you broken when it was lost. Left you as a dried husk of a man, an empty shell. Dean saw it in his father's eyes every time they mentioned their mom. It was one of the reasons Dean had always been such an ass with Sam about ever talking about her. In the Winchester home mom was a four letter word. It sent their Dad on three-day benders and kamikaze hunts. Talking about Mom was just plain _bad_.

And if that wasn't a condemnation of love, Dean didn't know what was. He'd sooner have the rest of his organs hollowed out by that damned magic mole thing than have his heart ripped out the way his Dad's had been when their mom burned up on the ceiling. Dean was weak and damaged enough without love robbing him of what precious strength he had left.

So he was alone instead.

These thoughts must have been showing like a technicolour light show on his face, because a pretty – scratch that, a sexy – redhead took the stool next to him and shimmied her way close to him as he sat at the bar. He could see her big brown eyes appraising him, her cherry lips pulling into a pout.

"So, the prognosis is bad, huh?" she asked tentatively, attempting at humour but offering sympathy. "Just got diagnosed with cancer of the puppy?"

Dean swallowed, took a quick deep breath, and then reached inside himself for his trade mark grin, slapping it on with gusto he didn't quite feel he had yet.

"Yeah," he said, his voice steady as a rock, playful even. "Doc says I've only got about six months to live."

He turned to face her, his smile sure, his eyes bright, confident. The mask was so convincing he began to believe within himself that it was real. _You're on top of the world, Dean Winchester_.

"That's just terrible," she said, pulling her bottom lip out even further. "But you at least look like you're coping well."

She was a sweet girl, he could tell. Her smile was playful, but her eyes were kind. Probably not the type to go home with some guy she just met at a bar. But he knew, could already tell by the way she was leaning close to him at the bar, that if he softened his smile, and looked her in the eye, and maybe even accidentally grazed her jaw with his thumb, that she'd be rocking in the back of the Impala before the night was out.

Because aside from hunting, this was one thing he was good at. Heck, he was a master.

So he showed no mercy.

"Well, there's nothing like staring down your own mortality to make you appreciate how truly precious life is," Dean intoned with mock severity, his mouth quirking into a side grin. He watched as her eyes followed the contours of his lips as his smile shifted. Chicks always had a thing for his mouth.

"Yeah," she said, nodding and grinning and then giggling. "Nothing like puppy cancer to make you feel truly alive."

An hour later they were tangled up together in the sheets of his single bed in his single motel room, the sweet redhead named Allie whispering his name with sweet kisses and shallow promises neither of them had any intention or ability to keep.

So not alone. At least, not right now.


	8. Looking Back

**Chapter Notes:**

_So this is the final installment for "Abandon." Spoilers for season 4, episode 3 ("In The Beginning"). Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. And for those of you who want to continue on this journey with me, the next portion of the series kicks off with "Just Like Starting Over." Trust me, there are miles to go before this story will be complete._

* * *

Mary Campbell had never been a patient woman. She spoke her mind, was forthright, and loved openly and unabashedly. It was one of the things John loved most about her. Though she could be guarded, and certainly had a number of walls in place to hide her secrets from the world at large, her heart was always on her sleeve when John was around. To him she was an open book. And when her parents died, something in her snapped. Whatever strings had been holding her together unravelled, leaving her wanting, needing, begging for release and protection. She wanted it now. Needed it now.

"You said you would protect me," she'd said. "You said you would take me away from all of this. Take me away, John. It's just us now. Just you and me."

_Just you and me, Mary._

"I want it all – you promised me!" Her eyes shimmering with tears, glistening with bashed hopes and pleading for promises John prayed he could keep, would give his life and soul to keep. "I want marriage and babies and a life that's just you and me and _us_."

"Ok, Mary," he'd said. _Anything you want. Everything you want_.

"And I want it _now_."

He couldn't have known what she knew. And even now he didn't know the full extent of it. But her world had ended that day – had come crashing down around her with the death of her father. And it had been a blur. Samuel Campbell in a rampage, threatening, grabbing. John had blacked out only to find Mary cradling him in her arms, her father's limp body on the ground next to them. Dead. He dared not ask her how: he didn't want to know. Was afraid of the answer. Had she killed her own father to save him? No. Not Mary. Not his sweet little blonde, a tiny slip of a girl with a heart full of fire and green eyes like moss torn to shreds on stormy seas.

But there was something horrible behind it. Something unspeakable. Samuel Campbell dead. Deanna Campbell too. Both parents gone in a single night – Deanna most likely at Samuel's own hand. And John couldn't ask. Instead he made her promises he'd give his life and soul to keep. Marriage and babies and a life that's _just us_. He could do that.

The marriage part was easy. It was a promise and a gift. It was like coming home to everything – settling into his own skin and resting there easy, like it had always been a perfect fit. Him and Mary, together like Adam and Eve: man and woman alone in the garden. And they were safe. And God, Mary was _happy_. In her whole life she wanted nothing more than to love him, and he bathed in her love every day, taking for granted that it would always be there. Because he'd promised, and she'd promised, and it was supposed to be forever.

Then came the babies part. That was more of a challenge. Mary wanted children so badly. The loss and grief and terror of her past had her biological clock ticking by the time she was twenty. She wanted to be a mom, to be the bringer of life and love. But there had been upsets and disappointments. Miscarriages and loss of hope. Then Mary began to pray.

And then there was Dean.

John had never been a religious man, but he would have sworn that God Himself had planted the seed in Mary's belly, that God Himself had answered her prayers. After six years of trying to conceive, Mary was pregnant. And after making it through the second trimester without incident, they were given the all-clear from the doctor. They were going to have a baby. Really and truly were going to have a baby.

John had never been more excited in his life. The anticipation and bubbling joy, unfulfilled hopes waiting to be realized in this little person who had yet to come into being… It terrified and amazed him. But Mary – she glowed. Her eyes lit up like the sun, reflecting John's own hopes and fears and secret joy at whoever was coming into their lives. Because they both knew that that little person was going to be somebody very special. Their whole universe.

"I want to name her after my mom," Mary had said one night into the dip of John's shoulder, her cheek sticking to the sweat of his flesh as he ran a hand along her distended belly, feeling the kicks of the little person inside. "Deanna's a beautiful name. I think my mother would really like that."

"And if it's not a her?" he had asked archly. The neighbour's wife had insisted that Mary's prolonged morning sickness was a clear sign that they were having a girl, and Mary had foolishly clung to the old wives' tale.

"Oh, it's a her," she'd assured him, grinning knowingly.

"Ah, you just want to have someone to be girly with," John teased her. "So you can braid each others' hair and get her ready for the prom."

"And you'll be waiting at the door with the shotgun to greet her date, right?"

"If she's as pretty as her mama, I'm going to have to," he whispered into her hair. "I know what teenage boys are like."

In later years he would definitely have reason to know what teenage boys were like, only in the reverse context.

As it turned out, the neighbour's wife had been wrong about _Deanna_. John could still remember the shock and then intense paternal satisfaction when the doctor announced that they had a healthy baby boy. John had been ushered from the waiting room to meet his wife after she'd been cleaned up, only to be greeted by a sight so breathtaking it stopped his heart for a moment. His whole world was in her eyes as she cradled that little red squalling bundle of bellowing lungs, and the calm that descended upon her, replacing anxiety, worry, excitement, said clearly that she had come home. This was it. Her golden tendrils flying in frizzy disarray around her sweat-slicked face, her cheeks red from recent exertion, she smiled at him and was the most radiantly beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes upon. This was home.

There would be other moments that stabbed with beautiful pain through his now shattered heart, other moments seared into his memory of times so precious the earth seemed to stand still. But that one in particular, when husband and wife became family, when a hope and a prayer and a bump in Mary's belly became _Dean_, all perfect pink skin and ten fingers and toes and blues eyes and spit bubbles and gums. Mary's face flushed with exhaustion, glowing with pride and purpose, laughing at the ear-splitting bellow of the baby they made out of nothing, whose lungs they were sure could shatter glass they were so strong, and _he_ was so strong. And God, if that wasn't the most perfect moment in John Winchester's entire life.

John turned his sad eyes onto the sleeping form of his eldest son, one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and bone and full of piss and vinegar, bravado masking pain, selflessness and self-sacrifice, razor wit and overcharged sex drive. But he still had ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. And though he never raised his voice against his father, his lungs were as fit for making noise now as ever they were when he was only seven pounds of hope and promise. And whenever Dean sang in the shower, bellowing at the top of his lungs as if he were the only person in the world and no one else could hear him, John thought of Mary. She loved to sing.

888

August 18, 1983

"_Just got back from Illinois. Lock the front door,"_ Mary paused in her singing as Dean twirled around on the lawn, his arms outstretched in a dizzying spin.

"_Oh boy!"_ he sang, his cherub face squinting in the morning sun as he spun.

"_Got to sit down, take a rest on the porch,"_ she continued, twisting her fingers through a patch of dandelions and skimming her bare toes through the grass. "Imagination sets in…"

She paused and waited for Dean.

"_Purty soon I'n singin',"_ he sang on an inhaled breath before toppling over.

"_Doo doo doo,"_ Mary chimed and was then joined by the four year-old who lay sprawled on his back in the grass, _"Lookin' out my back door!"_

John watched with a face-splitting grin, baby Sammy snuggled safely in the crook of his arm, as Dean crawled up off of the grass and teetered dizzily toward his mother, tumbling playfully into her lap. His floppy blonde locks were so light they glinted like white gold in the sunshine.

"Will Sammy sing with us when he gets bigger Mommy?" he asked.

"He might," she replied, scooping him up into her arms and pulling him into her lap. "Unless he's as tone deaf as Daddy."

Dean giggled and leaned back into his mother's chest, nuzzling into her.

"Are you tone deaf Daddy?" he asked with a grin.

"According to your mother," John admitted. God, he was smiling so hard his face hurt.

The blonde head tilted up to look at Mary.

"What's tone deaf mean?"

"It means he can't sing, baby," she whispered conspiratorially. "Because he sounds terrible."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, pursing his tiny bee stung lips. "I hope Sammy's not tone deaf, 'cos I want him to sing wif us when he's big enough."

"Are you going to teach him to sing, Dean?" John asked. It really did ache, the tension in his cheeks from smiling.

"Uh-huh!" Dean proclaimed proudly. "An' I'm going to show him how to play wif Tonkas and how it's okay to sleep in the big boy bed."

Mary brushed the long locks away from his forehead.

"And do you think you like having a little brother?"

"Mmmhmmm," he replied with enthusiasm. "I like it when Sammy talks to me."

At first they had been worried that Dean would be jealous of his baby brother, especially with all the attention he got from friends and neighbours, but there had been none of that. The four year-old doted on Sam, watching over him like a golden-haired puppy, taking in all the sights and sounds that were uniquely 'baby Sammy' and placing meaning to each and every one. He was convinced that every garbled sound that came from the baby's mouth was some kind of secret brotherly code, and to his credit, Dean did seem to be incredibly attuned to his brother's needs. He knew which cries meant Sammy-needs-changing and which meant Sammy's-hungry. And he prattled constantly to the baby, as if Sam could understand every word, and John couldn't help but notice that Sam's eyes lit up whenever his brother was around.

"You're going to look after your brother, aren't you sport," John said.

Dean nodded emphatically. "And I'm gonna teach him to make mud pies!"

"Dean!" Mary intoned. "If I catch you digging around in my garden again…"

And damn if the cherub-faced little devil didn't grin at his mother's warning, as if he had every intention of digging up the garden again, or worse yet, had already found a better, more infuriating place to make his mud pies. It was a grin that John Winchester would come to count on, though it infuriated the hell out of him, in dark days to come.

888

John Winchester sighed heavily and looked at the clock. 4:00 a.m. and he still couldn't sleep. The only sound in the quiet motel room was Dean's steady breathing. John often found himself watching him as he slept, trying to find solace in the inhalations and exhalations of breath, watching his son's chest rise and fall under the sheets. He remembered all too well a time, twenty two years ago, when he would stand over Dean's crib and watch that same chest rise and fall, holding his breath for fear that the kid would simply stop breathing in the night. And it had been no different with Sam when he was born. He and Mary both would hold their breath, watching with that absurd parental feeling of trepidation when new life is so small and fragile that the child breathing is like a miraculous act of God.

And he wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever let things come to this.

_God, Sam. Sammy_. So much of everything bundled into that one fire-cracker of life. John hadn't known it at the time, could never have guessed it until he actually arrived, but the entire Winchester lifeline was tied up in that person-to-be that was Sam. John and Mary had been hopeful, surprised, and a little scared when their second miracle came. And Dean had been enraptured. Sam was like the Second Coming. Sam's arrival heralded Winchester completeness, and they all felt it.

But there was a taint, even then, a dark shadow that fell over their happy home, and John cursed himself for having missed the signs. Because Mary had gone pale when the doctor told her the expected due date: May 2nd or 3rd, he'd said. And that was the ten-year anniversary of her parents' death, wasn't it? They'd never talked about it. But it seemed like a bad omen. A very bad omen. And Mary was so jittery in the weeks leading up to the delivery. If John hadn't known better, he would have sworn Rumpelstiltskin himself had laid some kind of claim to their second born by the way Mary worried about the birth of Sam. She'd been a nervous wreck in the weeks after as well. But with the passage of time she'd eased up. Summer came and brought sunshine and warmth, and Dean's blonde locks were bleached white by the sun, and Mary's burden eased. And Sam grew sturdier and stronger, as newborns are wont to do, and everything settled into place and it all just _fit_.

John had never dreamt that he could ever be so happy. A no-good mechanic and ex-marine who'd seen too much in the war without being hardened by it, but with nothing to offer his young wife but his love and devotion. And that had been enough for her – it was all she wanted. And with his job at the garage, and the house in Lawrence, and then Dean and then Sam, somehow the Winchesters had built a whole life out of _nothing_. And John had kept his promise. He'd given Mary what she wanted: he'd taken her away from whatever shadows were chasing her, and had built a life with her.

"I think Sam's going to be taller than Dean," she said, snapping the sticky tab across the fresh diaper and lifting the gurgling infant off of the changing table. "Look how freakin' long he is, John."

And it was true: Sam was extremely long for a baby – much longer than Dean had been when he was that age.

"But he's already as handsome as his brother, aren't you? Aren't you, Sammy?" her voice dipped into nonsense baby levels and she blew a loud raspberry on his belly, eliciting an infectious eruption of gummy giggles.

"They're fine looking boys," John agreed, scratching at the scruff on his chin.

"Sammy's got your dimples," Mary said with a wide smile. She watched her husband with heavy lids, a purr bubbling up within her at the sight of him in all his dark-haired domesticity. "Handsome like his daddy."

She leaned in and kissed him soundly, moaning her pleasure at the smell of axle grease and aftershave on his skin.

"Speaking of which…." She hesitated for a moment. "Mrs. Beardsley called today."

"Mrs. Beardsley? The pre-school teacher?"

Mary nodded.

"How is that speaking of which?"

She ignored the question and instead continued with her train of thought. "Apparently Dean was looking up a girl's skirt in school today."

John laughed from his belly.

"God help us," he said. "Chasing skirts already?"

"He said he wanted to know what she was hiding up there."

There was a three second count before they both erupted with laughter.

"We're going to have to explain the whole girls have boobies and boys have pee pees talk, aren't we?" John asked.

"I think so," Mary agreed.

Even as they talked, they could hear the sounds of Dean singing to himself as he sat at his little desk in his room and coloured in his colouring book. Mary peeked around the corner and caught a glimpse of him sitting contentedly, his feet swinging back and forth, as he sang his own wrongly-worded version of CCR's "Fortunate Son." _It ate me. It ate me. I ain't no fortune son_.

"Fuck he's cute," she breathed, sighing. "Just once I'd like to dress him up in a dress and put clips in his hair. Just once!"

She made shushing sounds to stop her husband's protests.

"I wouldn't actually do it, John!" and pouted. "But look at him!"

John grimaced, not wanting to encourage Mary's disturbing fantasies about cross-dressing his eldest son. But it didn't mean she wasn't right. The kid was ungodly cute – Gerber baby cute. And he was always singing and always chattering and always smiling and always getting himself into trouble without ever intending to. It was so hard to discipline him when you were struggling not to laugh, especially because half the time Mary encouraged his behaviour. She thought it was funny. John knew that if they didn't rein him in he was going to be impossible to deal with later.

And then there was Sam.

John didn't know what to make of Sam. His eyes were ever-watchful, as if he were taking everything in and sizing everything up. Every now and then he would yelp excitedly, his baby-fat legs kicking out for added emphasis, as if he were making the most important declaration any baby could possibly make in the history of mankind. And with his chubby cheeks and that tiny button nose, he looked so much like one of those Cabbage Patch dolls that were all the rage these days.

"I could just eat his face," Mary was constantly muttering, much to Dean's dismay. The first time she'd said it in front of Dean he'd burst into tears with a pathetic plea for his mommy not to eat Sammy.

Convincing the four year-old that his mother was not a cannibal, and would not be eating his baby brother any time in the future had been an exercise in patience. Even so, Dean had kept a watchful eye on his mother for three whole days to make sure that she wouldn't carry through with her threat to gobble baby Sammy up.

The memory made John ache. Even then, Dean's watchful eyes were trained on his brother, seeking out any hidden dangers that might be nipping at his heels. In retrospect, John wondered if maybe the boy had had some kind of psychic premonition, because the darkness _was_ after Sam. And the baby _did_ need looking after with more than just parenting. Evil had come to Lawrence, had stood over Sammy's crib – to do what John still didn't know – and had claimed Mary as its sacrifice to the dark. And since that horrible November night, John had learned things about evil, and about the vileness that was nipping at their heels, that had added more gray hairs to his head than time alone warranted, more worry lines to his face than age decreed.

And John didn't know what to do, because he'd made Mary promises that were impossible to keep, and he was pretty sure that he'd pissed all over her wishes in dragging her sons along on this dark path toward revenge. He had all but destroyed Dean and everything he could have been, in conditioning him to be his brother's protector and nothing more. And he'd driven Sam away – had barred him from ever coming back with his iron fist and his ultimatums. And now Sam was gone, and how in the hell was he supposed to keep him safe?

But no matter how he looked at it, sizing it up from each angle and taking bites from each corner, it always looked the same and tasted the same: ash on his tongue and blurring shades of gray. He couldn't have done it any other way, because evil was everywhere, and evil had found them, and evil was tied up inexorably with Sam and that meant that they were always in danger, and needed to be prepared to fight it before it swallowed them whole.

And that thought alone brought John Winchester to his knees, because he didn't know how to fight and win, and he didn't know how to keep his boys safe when one of them was on the other side of the country _'living his own life'_ and the other was downspiralling with grief, like a rudderless ship in desperate need of an anchor. Sam was gone and he needed protecting more than anyone, and before John knew it his blood was boiling with pent-up rage and frustration. _Sam was gone._ Sam had made plans that had nothing to do with staying safe, with fighting back against the encroaching darkness, with avenging his mother's death. And John wanted to scream that he was selfish and arrogant and disloyal, but mostly he wanted to hold him close and never let go because the darkness wanted to swallow him whole and make him its own, make him _not-Sam_.

He listened to Dean's steady breathing and held his head in trembling hands. He'd fucked everything up. He'd let both of his sons down, had let Mary down. And now Sam, his baby Sammy, was beyond his reach where he couldn't keep him safe, where the darkness could sneak up on him at any time. And John Winchester was so terrified he thought he might choke. So he did what he had to do to make it through the next day. He prepared for the hunt.

The newspaper article said that three hikers had gone missing deep in the Minnesota woods. A black dog, maybe. John circled the name of the investigating officer and folded the newspaper with a sigh. Sam would be okay. He was a smart kid and stubborn enough to make it just fine, if only to spite his old man. Sam would be fine.

Even so, John sent up a silent prayer to Mary to watch over their youngest boy, to keep the darkness away from him as she'd done, or tried to do, that cruel November night eighteen years ago. If Mary was watching out for him, maybe he would be okay.


End file.
